


Love in a Time of Oppression

by apolesen



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Angst, Cardassian art and literature, Cardassians, Dystopian novel tropes, Gay Character, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Plotty, Pre-Canon, Pre-Fire Cardassia, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: Elim Garak has dedicated his life to the Obsidian Order. His service to Cardassia is everything, until he meets Kelas Parmak. The closer they become, the more the experience changes Garak. Suddenly the things he has taken for granted are not as obvious as they once were, and he finds himself questioning the values that have always defined him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to tumblr users illogicalbroccoli and fiveroundsrapid for betaing and discussion. 
> 
> The following are the trigger warnings for the entire fic: Torture, legal, societal and internalised homophobia, mental illness (panic attacks, claustrophobia), oppressive tactics of totalitarian governments, police brutality, discussion of infringement of reproductive rights, references to physical and emotional child abuse, brief reference to suicide ideation.
> 
> This chapter has no specific trigger warnings.
> 
> A reference post with a list of characters and a map with relevant places (both without spoilers) can be found here:  
> http://apolesen.tumblr.com/post/180900698747/reference-post-for-love-in-a-time-of-oppression

It had not been a productive day. Garak got up from his desk and stretched, trying to relieve the stiffness in his spine. He had arrived at work just after dawn, and now it was well past sunset. He had not seen the sun for more than a few minutes today. There were no windows in his office or the processing room where the agents under him worked. 

The Obsidian Order compound sat like an eyeless but all-seeing beast in the middle of the city, close to the corridors of power in Tarlak, far enough from the military garrisons in Akleen, visible from the populous Torr. The compound, that formed a walled city of its own, was never identified as more than “Government building” on maps, but the people of the Union Capital knew. Only foolish children would ever talk about the Obsidian Order in the vicinity of it, but anyone who had to walk past it thought of the name. What lay beyond the walls was a mystery to the public. The most they might see was a skimmer with shaded windows passing through a gate that would bolt as soon as the vehicle had entered. No guards could be seen. Some must wonder if the rumours that this was the heart of the Obsidian Order were actually lies to cover up something more mundane. That suited the Order’s purposes just fine. 

Garak was pulling his coat on when the doorbell to his office chimed. 

‘Enter.’ 

The door opened. Senta stepped in, several PADDs under her arm. Seeing him in his coat, she said: 

‘I’m sorry, sir, but these can’t wait.’ 

Garak waved to her to present what she had. 

‘Inquisitor Lok wants an update on the Cardassia IV situation.’ 

‘Tell him that we have dispatched two agents to deal with the matter.’ 

‘And next octad’s surveillance plans need approving.’ 

He took the PADD from her, looked through it and approved it with his thumbprint. 

‘Anything else?’ he asked, giving back the PADD. Senta stuffed it in her belt and moved the PADD she had pressed under her elbow into her hand with an elegance that could only come from practice. Her other sleeve was empty, pinned up by her shoulder. How she, who had been such a promising field agent only two years ago, was not more bitter about being stuck working on administrative tasks in the compound, Garak would never understand.

‘The listeners picked up something interesting in North Torr.’ 

Garak looked over the report from the comm-monitoring section. 

‘“The Workers’ School of Learning”,’ he read aloud. ‘Sometimes I think they take us for fools.’ He handed back the PADD. ‘Get someone on it. Level three surveillance should do it.’ 

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, then asked: ‘Shall I call your skimmer?’ 

‘No. Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping it is a pleasant night for walking.’ 

Senta snorted, but she looked sympathetic. 

‘Good night, then, sir.’ 

‘Good night, Senta.’ 

He left the office and descended the stairs to one of the lower levels. At the boundary of the complex, marked by the wall above them, his credentials were inspected and his exit was registered. The corridor ran for another hundred metres. At its end, Garak climbed up another set of stairs and emerged into one of the buildings outside the compound that were used as entry points. When he stepped out of the doors, no one looked at him twice. 

Most nights, he would skirt the Tarlak memorial grounds and the borders of Munda’ar to reach his apartment on the edges of Torr. The thought of that routine felt oppressive today. Instead, he crossed the section boundary to the east. The broad boulevards and dominating buildings gave way to narrow streets and simpler houses. Where the Tarlak was imposing and dry, North Torr was alive. The noise was unavoidable. Music and conversations and shouting created a unique cacophony. From somewhere in the distance, Garak could hear the sirens of a police skimmer. Despite the din, Garak felt detached from it. He walked down the streets, unable to feel a part of it. He passed taverns where customers spilled onto the pavements, establishments where heat-lamps and _vorsa_ pipes were set out among low couches, bars where the music and glass-clinking seemed to drown each other out. Twice, Garak was passed by groups of people big enough that he had to push himself against the wall to let them through. Each time it caused a flash of panic before the crowd passed and the street opened up again. 

He had crossed into East Torr by the time he turned off the larger streets. In one of the smaller alleys, he stepped into what to the initiated only looked like a shabby corner-shop. A few words were exchanged. The shopkeeper waved him through to the back and opened the door to the cellar. Garak climbed down the stairs. For a brief moment, the stairwell seemed to crowd him like the people in North Torr had. Then, the stairs stopped and the walls pulled back, leaving him free in the cellar bar.

Garak felt himself relax a little. Through the pipe-smoke, he could make out a few familiar faces: a man with his chufa stained with blue dye, another who wore the same Bajoran jacket as always, the handsome young man he had entertained a few octads ago. He could not remember his name – perhaps he had never known it? That would make more sense. He passed by these acquaintances, greeting them only with nods. Finding a stool at the bar, he ordered a glass of spring wine. No one approached him to talk. He must have managed to look more forbidding than usual. He looked around, feeling unhappy in his isolation. A dull pain had settled in his chest. Absentmindedly, he rubbed it, forcing himself to breathe properly. 

He felt better after a few mouthfuls of wine. When he looked around again, he saw that a soldier, uniform visible under his jacket, had joined the man with the dyed forehead. They were sitting close, talking conspiratorially. The soldier reached out and stroked his companion’s cheek ridge. The other man’s tongue flicked between his lips, tasting the air. The soldier’s fingers moved to his forehead, touching his chufa. The man exhaled with pleasure. Garak could see the soldier ask his paramour something, then lean in and put their mouths together in the Bajoran fashion. Garak looked away again, feeling wretched. He thought of going to talk to his friend from last month, but dismissed it. He was beautiful, but he did not have a thing to say. 

A voice, crisp and high-pitched, rose over the music. 

‘You’re completely wrong,’ it said. ‘There is no measure according to which Preloc is better than Hapek.’ 

Garak turned on his stool, trying to see where the voice came from. The haze made it difficult to tell at first, but then the voice spoke again, lower now but still easy to make out. 

‘Every sentence in Hapek’s works is finely crafted. Every word is carefully chosen. Preloc gets carried away by the narrative and her style goes out of the window.’ 

The speaker was sitting at a corner table, gesturing as he criticised Preloc’s over-reliance on superlatives and metaphors. He was around Garak’s age, but his hair was an eye-catching white. It was long, combed back from his forehead and twisted into a long, loose braid. Through the smoke, Garak saw something on his face flash, catching the light. His first thought was that he had his cheek ridge pierced. Then he realised that the man was wearing glasses. Taking his wine with him, he made his way over to the corner table. 

‘Look here,’ said the bespectacled man, taking a book out of his pocket and showing the man who was with him a passage. ‘Here. I had to read this three times before I realised where this sentence was going.’ 

Garak was close enough to see the pages. He barely needed to read them – he knew Preloc well. 

‘The style of that sentence is exemplary,’ he said. ‘If you couldn’t understand it the first time around, then no wonder you prefer Hapek.’ 

The man looked up, surprised at the intrusion. He had a beautiful face, made intriguing by the spectacles. Garak wondered if they were an affectation. 

‘If you can’t tell which of the three accusatives in the sentence is the direct object on the first read, then there is something wrong with the sentence,’ he answered tartly. 

‘The meaning is perfectly clear,’ Garak said. ‘Preloc’s use of the accusative of respect is famous.’ 

‘And annoying,’ the man said. ‘It’s an unnecessary archaism.’ 

‘The archaism makes perfect sense. She is describing a monument of an ancient battle. The style is evoking the antiquity of the memorial.’ 

‘But she does exactly the same thing on the next page, when she’s describing a bouquet of flowers!’ the man said. ‘How does that make perfect sense?’ 

‘If you are looking for sense, I’m surprised you’d like Hapek,’ Garak snorted. ‘His style is sloppy at best.’ 

‘Sloppy? It is minimalist – modern.’ 

‘It’s vulgar.’ 

‘Are you saying that because of his use of postpositions or his compounding?’ 

‘I was thinking about his over-use of neologisms. He goes out of his way to find new, obscure words.’ 

‘Hapek is an innovator,’ the man said. ‘Many of his words have made their way into common parlance.’ 

‘But not literature. Hapek’s influence on his contemporaries and successors was infinitesimal. Preloc defined her genre.’ 

‘Your position, sir, betrays your chauvinism,’ the man said and his eyes gleamed behind the glasses. His friend stood. 

‘I’m getting something to drink,’ he muttered and left. Garak looked after him, then back at the man with the poor literary taste. He was smiling. 

‘How much of Preloc’s work have you read?’ Garak asked. 

‘All of it,’ the man said. ‘Twice. And I still prefer Hapek.’ 

‘Perhaps the comparison is unfair,’ Garak said. ‘Preloc is superior to Hapek, but they do work within different genres. It might skew the argument.’ 

The man’s smile widened. He pushed the vacated chair out from under the table with his foot. 

‘What’s a better comparison?’ he asked. Garak sat down. 

‘To my mind, the only stylist superior to Preloc is Tegor.’ 

‘Again, different genre,’ the man said. 

‘Is she?’ Garak asked. ‘Preloc builds on Tegor’s historical themes. They are related.’ 

The man folded his hands and rested his chin on them. He leaned a little closer. 

‘Parmak.’ 

For a moment, Garak thought he had mentioned some author he had not heard of. Then he realised it was an introduction. He looked the man in the eye. His irises were an uncommon amber. 

‘Garak.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘Tell me your take on Tegor,’ he said.

***

Parmak’s friend did not come back. Garak wondered how long Parmak had bored him with talking literature. _Clearly a fool_ , he reflected. The conversation had been wasted on him. Garak could not remember when he had a discussion quite like the one they had at that corner table. They discussed Tegor, the Tetrarchian poets, the possibility of retelling non-Cardassian stories in a Cardassian mould, the recent import of Bajoran metre into Cardassian poetry. Parmak moved his hands as he spoke, waving and pointing and emphasising. At first, Garak watched his hands. His scales were finer than most men’s and he had filed down his claws, making the tips of his fingers look almost mammalian. Then he had decided that the hands were a distraction and looked at his face instead. Parmak’s eyes seemed never to leave Garak’s. He watched him with startling directness while outlining his arguments and hearing Garak’s refutations.

They stayed until the bartender started to put the stools up on the tables around them. Garak had been in the middle of praising Meran’s latest collection of poems when the bartender put a stool especially hard on the table next to them. Parmak made a face at the noise, then turned to Garak. 

‘Shall we…?’ He nodded towards the exit. 

‘An excellent idea.’ 

As they climbed the stairs from the cellar bar, Garak returned to the subject of Meran’s poetry.

‘The beauty is in the versatility of the collection,’ he said. ‘If you read them in the order they are in, they tell one story. If you read them in reverse order, it gives another.’ 

‘I would have thought that would not appeal to you,’ Parmak said. ‘Your literary tastes seem so… inflexible.’ 

‘Not at all,’ Garak said. ‘I am not fond of frivolity. Meran’s work is sincere.’

Parmak stopped and turned to face him. Then he descended the steps between them until they were on the same level. It was Garak who reached out first, to stroke a lock of hair behind Parmak’s ear. Parmak rested his hand on Garak’s shoulder, just at the edge of the neck ridge. They moved closer. Their cheeks touched, pressing together. Then, angling his head, Parmak pressed their foreheads against one another. Garak pushed closer, tracing the ridges around Parmak’s eye with his fingers. When he put his mouth close to his skin, he could taste the arousal on him. 

‘I think we have had quite enough literary discussion for tonight,’ he said. Parmak drew back a little and pushed his glasses up his nose. He did not look away from Garak’s face. 

‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Mine or yours?’ 

‘Yours, if that’s acceptable.’ 

He smiled. 

‘Come along, then.’ 

They took the shuttle running along the sector boundary of Munda’ar and Akleen, into Paldar. There, they disembarked. Garak followed him to the tram, observing but not commenting. The tram-route took them north, in among the respectable homes of the middle-class. Parmak was looking out of the window, but his hand was resting on the seat. Garak felt how his fingers spread and touched his leg. He did not allow his reaction to show, but that small, invisible signal was thrilling. 

Parmak removed his hand. 

‘This is it.’ 

Garak followed him. Under the street-lights, his companion’s white hair shone. In the darkness between the lamp-posts, it seemed to hold onto some of that light. Had it not been for the glasses and the suit, he could have been a _tamtha_ spirit of legend, tall, pale and unworldly. Parmak looked over at him, and the thought was gone. There as nothing cold or ethereal about the look he gave him. He brushed past him, climbing the steps of one of the houses. Garak followed nearby, close enough that their shadows became one. 

‘Do you live alone?’ he asked in a whisper. 

‘Yes,’ Parmak answered. He unlocked the door. ‘Come in.’ He took him by the hand and led him over the threshold. 

That first time in Parmak’s home, Garak did not pay any attention to his surroundings. He allowed himself to be blind to the details and simply followed him. They touched, first gently and then urgently. Parmak was down to his under-shirt when he broke away, panting. 

‘How do you feel about Resar?’ he asked. It took a moment for Garak’s endorphine-addled mind to understand why he was asking his opinion about that. 

‘He’s one of the finest composers Cardassia has ever produced.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘At least we agree on something.’ 

He went over to the computer panel in the wall and tapped in a few commands. The first tones of Resar’s sixth symphony flowed out of the speakers. It always made Garak draw a sharp breath, so eery was the combined sound of the brass and the strings. Parmak stepped closer. Their eyes locked. Parmak’s chufa rubbed against Garak’s, making him gasp like the music. He leaned closer, buried his fingers in that strange, white hair and nuzzled against his neck-ridge. In response, Parmak planted a hand on the nape of his neck to hold him close. Their bodies pressed together. Against his hip, Garak could feel the pressure of his genitals. 

As the tones of the symphony spiralled upwards and created new patterns, they broke apart and stripped. Parmak took his glasses off. Without them, his face looked different, but equally beautiful. They fell onto the bed, the music drowning out the sounds they made. Their bodied entangled – face to neck, _chufa_ to _chuva_ , chest to chest. 

As the final cords of the string-sections sounded, they pulled apart, as if the music and the pleasure were one. Garak breathed heavily, feeling thoroughly spent. Parmak looked over at him and smiled. He smiled back. 

‘Stay there,’ Parmak said. He brushed his cheek against Garak’s and got out of bed. Garak watched as he left the room. Now, naked and with his long hair let out, he again looked like something otherworldly. He lay back again, thinking of his long body. In the act, his _chula_ had flushed violet. Garak had licked at it, as if hoping to swallow some of that colour. 

The door opened. Parmak was back, now wrapped in a silk dressing-gown. 

‘No need to cover up, is there?’ Garak asked playfully. Parmak sat down on the bed and smiled. 

‘Perhaps I wanted to show it off.’ 

‘You’d be right to. But I think you were showing off even before.’ 

Parmak reached out and traced the ridges on Garak’s face, over his chin and down the finer scales over his larynx. Garak drew a sharp breath. 

‘Can you stay?’ Parmak asked quietly. The wording intrigued him. It was not “will you stay”, asking intent, or “would you stay”, an invitation, but “can you stay”, an enquiry of previous engagements. In suggesting they go to Parmak’s home, he must have given him the wrong impression. It happened, of course – married men sneaking off to places like the one where they had met. 

Garak sat up and touched Parmak’s face. 

‘I don’t have a wife at home.’ 

Parmak sighed with relief. 

‘Good.’ 

Garak smiled. Parmak’s nervousness was rather endearing. 

‘I would like to stay.’ 

He smiled. 

‘I have to be up early, I’m afraid.’ 

‘I don’t mind. I’m an early riser.’ 

Parmak slipped off the dressing-gown and got into bed again. His fingers returned to Garak’s face, drawing patterns on his cheeks. He had screwed up his eyes to focus, causing two lines to run on either side of his _chufa_. Garak returned his gaze. He did not look away until Parmak closed his eyes and drifted off, his hand slipping from Garak’s face to the crook of his neck.

*** 

Garak was not used to seeing lovers the morning after an encounter. When it happened, it was always an awkward meeting, and conversation was never more complicated than where the closest tram-stop was.

This was different. As Parmak prepared breakfast, Garak took him up on his invitation to look around. He looked into a room that appeared to be a study, and decided not to enter. Instead, he wandered around the living-room. The walls were lined with books. There were data-rods in cases with titles on them, but the overwhelming majority were codices. Most were Cardassian. Garak concluded that Parmak was well-read, and he made a mental note of works to discuss with him. There were also some Bajoran books, which did not surprise him. A small section of book-scrolls caught his interest in particular. He edged one of them out and looked at the tag. 

‘You read Vulcan?’ he asked, loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. 

‘Yes,’ Parmak said. ‘Although I’ve never spoken it in my life.’ He came into the living room with two bowls of fish juice. ‘Do you know Vulcan?’ 

‘Yes. Rather well, in fact.’ 

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Parmak said drily. 

Garak sat down at the table with him. 

‘Have you read the _Var T’Lamok Be’t’hy’la_?’ Parmak asked. 

‘I don’t think so,’ Garak said. ‘I find Vulcan literature rather dull.’ 

‘This is not dull. It’s pre-Surak.’ 

‘I didn’t realise there was literature that was pre-Surak.’ 

‘There is,’ Parmak said. ‘Some of it is absolutely beautiful. Do you know about the ancient custom of _t’hy’la_?’ 

‘“Brother”,’ Garak translated, sipping his fish-juice. 

‘Actually, the semantics is more complex than that.’ Parmak was warming to the subject. ‘Vulcan children are always born with seven years between them, with the rare exception of twins, so the concept of brotherhood as a close one is rather alien to Vulcans. When Vulcans came into contact with humans, humans translated the word _t’hy’la_ with “brother”, and when Starfleet made contact with us, the mistake was repeated in our dictionaries. _T’hy’la_ describes a close bond between two men. In ancient times, it was used of allied warriors, whose love for one another spurred them on in battle.’ 

‘And you managed to get hold of this?’ Garak asked disapprovingly. ‘How could such a thing pass the censors?’ 

‘Oh, it hasn’t been published on Cardassia, as far as I know,’ Parmak said. ‘A friend brought a scroll back from a conference on Vulcan. The customs officer didn’t bother to run it through the translation matrix. He thought it was just a souvenir. It is the best gift I’ve ever been given, and one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read.’ 

Garak shook his head theatrically. 

‘And you’ve read Preloc. I do not know what to make of you, Parmak.’ 

That only made him grin. 

‘Can I see you again?’ he asked suddenly. Garak raised his eye-ridges. The enthusiasm took him aback, but it made something warm flare up inside of his chest. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Then let’s say this,’ Parma said, leaning closer. ‘I’ll lend you my copy of _Var T’Lamok Be’t’hy’la_ , and next octad, you return it to me.’ 

Garak smiled. 

‘Same place?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Are you lending me the book to make sure I turn up?’ he asked. Parmak’s eyes twinkled. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you to read it. You deserve to have read something that beautiful.’ 

Garak looked at him for a long moment. _He’s a romantic,_ he thought. As a rule, he found romantics insufferable. This time, however, it felt different. 

‘I’ll read it with interest,’ he promised.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: some references to homophobia. 
> 
> Thank you to AlphaCygni who let me feature the painting from her AU "Proof".

Every night of the following octad, Garak spent pouring over the book of Vulcan poetry Parmak had lent him. The scroll itself was made in the traditional way, rare river-reeds pressed into a delicate writing surface and then rolled up on a rod of bone. The cover was hand-stitched and made from fabric. He laid it out on his desk in the study, cushioning it with a folded-up table-cloth for fear of breaking it. The text was not printed, but carefully hand-written. This made Garak wonder if this piece was restricted on Vulcan too, whether for its deviant themes or its pre-Surak philosophy, but decided that did not tally well with what he knew of Vulcans. It was said that in the Federation, any couple could marry, regardless of their respective sex. Garak thought it sounded absurd, and he had wondered if it was a clumsy lie circulated by Central Command to discredit their enemy. At the same time, he knew for a fact that the Federation had none of the laws about sexual deviancy that Cardassia had. 

Despite what he had said about his skills in Vulcan, he found that he struggled with the archaic language. After two days, he had swallowed his pride and got a grammar and a dictionary out. He had expected that pausing to look up vocabulary would bring him out of the text, but instead he saw it unfolding before him. Without the gaps in meaning, the poetry became something real that touched him. 

He had read poetry about the love between men before. There was the more obscure poems by Larok, predating his patriotic works by decades, which tended to be heavily censored and rewritten, unless one knew where to go. There were a couple of Tetrarchians, but most people would argue that they were either analogies or a description of fraternal love. Then, of course, there was some of the poetry that was sometimes read at invert establishments. Almost invariably, the quality was amateurish at best. Garak felt that he would rather read real literature about the beauty of women than sit through invert poetry with no regard for metrical scansion or general style. 

_Var T’Lamok Be’t’hy’la_ , he had to admit, was like none of it. He had expected it to be metaphorical, bland and filled with ideas he did not understand, but instead, it had an unusual impact on him. The struggle to read it was rewarding. Sometimes when he was away from the scroll, he would find himself thinking about the poems, trying to remember the words. The collection, consisted of short, independent pieces: first meetings, the forging of bonds, the chaos of the battlefield, joy at victory and sorrow over defeat, grief over dead lovers, hope of reunion, passion of joinings. Even when the the cultural concepts were too alien for him to understand, Garak found beauty in the verses.

> Upon the fallen fighters’ tombs  
>  I carved the words into the sand.  
>  Just by where Mount Seleya looms,  
>  The brothers of our holy band  
>  Allow the souls to find their still  
>  But never leave our blessed brow,  
>  for here their strength and mind and will  
>  endures for ever and for now.  
>  As summer turns and storm-winds rise,  
>  We turn away, we go as one,  
>  Under the goddess’ wary eyes  
>  We strive beneath the winter sun.  
>  My brother, find me at your side.  
>  I do not rest under the sand  
>  Nor can your weathered fingers hide  
>  The mark I left upon your hand.  
>  I march with you on callused feet  
>  And warm your cold soul with my heat. 

On the day he had arranged to meet Parmak again, Garak put the scroll in his briefcase and brought it with him to work. Carrying it into the Obsidian Order complex made him uneasy, but he could not deny to himself that there was a thrill in it too. The knowledge that he carried a document that passionately described acts that were harshly punished on Cardassia into the heart of the Obsidian Order was entertaining. Just to be on the safe side, Garak kept the briefcase locked for the entire day. He hoped sincerely that nothing major would happen that day. The labour unions in North Torr, the rebels on Cardassia IV and the Bajoran bloody Resistance would just have to take the night off. Tonight, only a direct order from Tain would have been able to keep him at work.

To his great relief, that order never came. He left at the same time as usual, though by the look the guards at the door gave him, his anticipation was obvious. The book-scroll in his briefcase was just a pretext – they both knew that. Thinking back, he could not remember feeling like this since he left the Bamarren Institute. It was a state of mind he thought he had left behind, along with the other trappings of youth. 

When he entered the cellar bar, he spotted Parmak at once. He was sitting at a table furthest in, but his white hair was visible even through the haze. As Garak approached, he looked up and smiled, his entire face shining up. 

‘You came,’ he said. 

‘Of course,’ Garak said and sat down. ‘You didn’t think I’d abscond with your Vulcan book and never be seen again, did you?’ 

‘I hoped that wouldn’t happen, but you never know.’ 

The barkeep came over with a tray with a bottle of Bajoran spring-wine and two glasses. Parmak glanced up at him. 

‘Thank you, Tulet.’ 

He did not respond, but left them to it. Parmak opened the bottle and filled the glasses. 

‘So, did you read it?’ 

Garak took the scroll out of his briefcase. Parmak met his eyes, waiting for him to speak. He had had so much to say about it, but now, it was all gone. Agreement was not something that came naturally to him, but he thought Parmak had been right. It was truly beautiful. 

‘It surprises me,’ he said finally, ‘that there is nothing like this on Cardassia.’ 

‘There might have been,’ Parmak said. ‘Have you heard the theory that parts of the Zerat epic was purposefully excised from the manuscripts?’ 

‘It’s clear that some Hebitian religious imagery was taken out of the descent into the underworld. That I thought was the consensus.’ 

‘I believe it is. Something odd definitely happens with the metre in that passage.’ 

‘“He steps on bones that gods have stripped and steers his feet forward”,’ Garak said, tapping the rhythm of the last clause to indicate that it did not scan. ‘The last third must have been about the chthonics, originally.’ 

‘Yes. There are editions that try to undo it, you know.’ 

‘“Try” being the operative word,’ Garak said. ‘After one too many painful reading experiences, I have vowed never to read any edition other than Veinar’s.’ 

‘Veinar goes out of his way to make the epic dull,’ Parmak objected. 

‘He may be conservative, but that saves him from the flights of fancy of people like Khorat. Surely you don’t prefer the reconstructivists?’ 

‘I appreciate their philosophy more than their poetry,’ Parmak said. ‘Perhaps we have to admit that what has been destroyed is truly gone. If we try to recreate it, we are creating something new, not saving the old from oblivion.’ 

‘That is a more honest approach,’ Garak said. Thinking back, he realised he had interrupted Parmak’s initial point about the _Zeratica_. ‘What missing passages were you thinking of?’ 

‘Strictly, I was thinking about their absence. Not the passages themselves, which are lost.’ 

Garak shot him a look, and Parmak grinned. 

‘I once had an interesting conversation with someone at Central University about the sixteenth book. She suggested that in between when Zerat leaves the temple and when he rejoins his uncle’s army, there is a section missing, possibly as much as a hundred lines. Some of the earliest manuscripts have inconsistent numbering. That could be a mistake, of course, but she suggested that it was because in the manuscript they were copying, a part had been covered up, and they simply skipped it without changing the numbering. Now, her theory was that that missing passage was an encounter with Palok.’ 

Garak let a surprised ‘hm’ escape him. Palok, the old Cardassian god of cunning, seduced every single woman in the Zeratica. The idea that he had seduced Zerat himself made sense.

‘An intriguing suggestion,’ he conceded. ‘It would make sense thematically.’ Now that he thought about it, Zerat’s return to the army seemed abrupt. 

‘What’s more, my acquaintance told me that she had been at an archaeological dig where they had found painted pots with Palok and a warrior, embracing.’ 

‘That doesn’t prove a thing about the Zeratica,’ Garak pointed out. 

‘No, but it implies that it might have been a myth about Palok and Zerat, or maybe some other hero, being lovers.’

Garak considered this. The argument was enticing, but he felt it was too uncertain. Perhaps approaching ancient literature with his standards of proof was not useful. 

‘What happened to the pots?’ he asked instead. 

‘Oh, they went into the reclamator, along with other debris,’ Parmak said. He tried to sound casual, but it was clear that the practice disturbed him. ‘As so much poetry must have done.’ 

‘But not this.’ Garak gestured at the book-scroll. Parmak smiled sadly. 

‘I just wished there was something like it that had survived here.’ 

Garak did not answer, but now he felt the same pain. 

Their discussion was interrupted when a stir went through the bar. Parmak craned his neck and Garak turned around to watch the newcomers. An elderly man, dressed like a bureaucrat, was making his way over to the bar with his companion, a young Bajoran man. Garak turned back in his chair and shared a look with Parmak, who leaned closer. 

‘What do you think is the story there?’ he asked under his breath. 

‘Oh, something nefarious, I’m sure,’ Garak said. ‘Perhaps the Bajoran is trying to weasel his way into his pockets. Or maybe he has designs on his son, or daughter for that matter.’ The bureaucrat looked twice the Bajoran’s age. 

‘Whatever it is, I wish him luck,’ Parmak said and drained his wine-glass. 

‘I think the done thing would be to hope for our compatriot’s long life and well-being,’ Garak said teasingly. Parmak looked amused. 

‘My dear Garak, we are in what the constabulary calls a “den of deviants”. The “done thing” does not apply here.’ He became a little more serious. ‘And I have very little patience for people with no regard for other sentient life.’ 

‘And you think he doesn’t?’ Garak asked, referring to the bureaucrat. Parmak shrugged. 

‘Perhaps he is kind and loving. Perhaps that young man is just where he wants to be. But more likely, he was bribed or threatened into coming here. That does not predispose me to feeling affinity for our compatriot.’ 

That was not what Garak had expected him to say. Still, he did not disagree. 

‘You’re lucky we’re in a den of deviants,’ he said and smiled. ‘Anywhere else, that kind of talk could get you into trouble.’ 

Parmak smiled back and leaned a little closer. 

‘I’m glad I have picked my company well, then.’ 

Leaning over the table, he touched his cheek to Garak’s. He moved his face against his and let the edge of his _chufa_ brush against his. Garak pushed into the touch. After another few moments, Parmak pulled back. 

‘Do you enjoy art?’ he asked. 

_Questions out of the blue seems to be something I will have to get used to,_ Garak thought. 

‘“Art” is quite a broad concept,’ he said. ‘I can’t make a sweeping judgement.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘We could go to the Museum of Cardassian Art. I’d be interested to hear your opinions.’ 

Garak smiled back. 

‘That sounds excellent.’ He drained his glass. ‘Is that what we’ll do next octad?’ 

‘I was thinking sooner than that,’ Parmak said. ‘Daret, perhaps?’ 

Garak felt his stomach do a somersault. Daret was only two days away. 

‘Yes,’ he said. 

‘Wonderful,’ Parmak said. He grabbed the empty wine bottle and stood up. 

‘Are you leaving?’ Garak asked, the excitement turning into disappointment. Parmak shook his head. 

‘I’m getting us another bottle of wine.’ He traced his thumb down Garak’s neck-ridge. ‘We have plenty to talk about still. We haven’t even discussed _Var T’Lamok Be’t’hy’la_ yet in its own right, after all.’ 

Garak smiled and stood up. 

‘Allow me.’ He took the bottle from him. Parmak let him take it, but held him with his eyes, keeping him there. Garak considered suggesting they leave now – Vulcan poetry could wait for a while – but then decided that waiting made the fruit sweeter. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said and left. As he was waiting at the bar, he looked back to their table and saw that Parmak had taken the book-scroll out of its cover and was reading it. He looked up from the scroll and smiled at Garak. It was brief, lasting only for a second before he turned back to the text, but it seemed to last an aeon. Turning back to the bar, he willed the barkeep to hurry and let him get back. He wanted to be under those eyes and return his gaze.

***

When Garak arrived at the Museum of Cardassian Art two days later, he could not see Parmak waiting on the steps of the building, as he had expected. Neither was he in the large entrance-hall. As he always did when he entered, Garak stopped and turned his eyes to the domed ceiling. Looking down at him was Cardassia, the personification of his home. In her right hand rested the grey sphere that was Cardassia Prime. In her left, she held high a banner with the crest of the Cardassian Union. Even if it was often depicted as large and heavy-looking, the custom was to only ever show it being carried by one hand. The State held the banner aloft by its own strength. Garak bowed his head, briefly, then went into the exhibitions.

He found Parmak sitting on a bench in front of a large canvas, depicting a _hemarn_ harvest in the twilight. Without speaking, Garak sat down beside him. 

‘I imagine you find realism rather dull,’ Parmak said, not looking away from the painting. 

‘Not when it has meaning.’ 

‘Does this one?’ 

‘Yes. There is some interesting symbolism.’

Parmak looked over at him now. When he spoke, it was quietly. 

‘I’m glad you found me,’ he said. ‘I felt it was better not to wait outside.’ 

‘Probably wise,’ Garak said. ‘Besides, I rather enjoyed deducing where you’d go.’ 

‘Where did you look?’ 

‘How do you know I didn’t find you on my first try?’ Garak asked. Parmak chuckled. ‘I looked in the Bajoran galleries first.’ 

‘I do love them,’ Parmak admitted. ‘There was an entire primary school in there, though.’ 

‘That’s why I came here.’ 

Garak turned his attention back to the painting. 

‘Have you noticed the scythe?’ he asked. 

Parmak looked at the tool, which was being swung by a young man. 

‘Not particularly. What about it?’ 

‘This is supposed to be a harvest in the Eastern part of the Keteen province. They only use sickles, like the other figures in the painting.’ 

‘So it’s a factual mistake?’ 

‘I don’t think so,’ Garak said. ‘It’s the most crucial part of the painting. Look.’ He pointed to the blade of the scythe. ‘Do you see it?’ 

Parmak frowned. 

‘I’m not sure what I’m looking for.’ 

‘The constellation behind him.’ 

‘I’m afraid I can’t make it out from here.’

‘It’s the Hound.’ 

‘Ah. You’re right. But I’m afraid I don’t understand why that’s symbolic.’ 

‘Well, the scythe is pointing at the Hound. Specifically, the third star in it.’ 

Now Parmak’s eyes grew with realisation. Garak grinned. The third star in the Hound was B’hava’el, the Bajoran sun. 

‘If I’m not mistaken, this was painted in 705,’ Garak continued. ‘A year after the conquest of Bajor. It is about the reward of hard labour. The farmer’s arms may tire, but his harvest will sustain his family, like the conquest of Bajor sustains Cardassia.’ 

‘So in that analogy, Bajor is the _hemarn_ ,’ Parmak said, ‘cut down and never allowed to thrive.’ 

Garak looked at him appraisingly, but not without amusement. 

‘You have a very literal mind.’ 

‘It’s symbolic. There is nothing literal about it,’ Parmak said and stood up. ‘Shall we?’ 

Garak stood too. Together, they wandered from painting to painting. Sometimes they barely spoke and moved on quickly. At other times, they would stop at length. They stood in front of a large painting of a scene from _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_ for a long time. Garak admired the depiction of Altak Anat grieving for his wife, while Parmak watched him.

‘You like _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_?’ he asked after a while. 

‘“Like” does not really cover the experience of that novel,’ Garak said. ‘Few things have touched me like it has.’ At Parmak’s smile, he asked: ‘Is that mockery I see?’ 

‘Not as such,’ Parmak said. ‘I have just never seen what the fuss is about.’ 

Garak huffed. 

‘“The fuss”? We’re talking about the finest piece of literature written by a Cardassian!’ 

‘You must admit, it drags a little at times. Whenever I try rereading it, I never get past the third generation, and then I just can’t take anymore.’ 

‘I can’t believe we are having the conversation.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll grant you that the painting in itself is very appealing.’ 

He leaned in to look closer at the brush-work, then stepped back and took his glasses off. He held them up against the light to inspect them. 

‘Hm.’ He rubbed them against his sleeve. 

‘So the glasses are not a fashion-statement?’ Garak asked. 

Parmak laughed. 

‘Not in the least. I’m helpless without them.’ 

Garak took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to him. 

‘Oh, thank you.’ Parmak polished the glasses and put them on. Instead of turning back to the painting, he inspected the handkerchief. ‘What does the E stand for?’ he asked, running his thumb over the embroidered initials. 

‘Elim.’ 

He looked at him and smiled. 

‘I like it.’

‘Wouldn’t it be fair to tell me your first name?’ Garak asked. 

‘It’s Kelas.’ 

Garak returned his smile. The name suited him. Parmak hooded his eyes in something between genuine embarrassment and flirtatious play-acting.

‘I wouldn’t mind if you called me that.’ 

‘We have known each other for all of ten days.’ 

Now Parmak looked directly at him, smiling mischievously. 

‘And it’s been an excellent ten days, hasn’t it, Elim?’ 

Hearing his own name in Parmak’s voice was odd, simultaneously startling and familiar. When he handed back the handkerchief, Garak allowed his fingers to brush against his. The look on Parmak’s face made him think he was resisting the urge to touch their faces together. That would have to wait. 

Parmak stepped back. 

‘There is rather a nice painting of Prina and Ghelan in the next room, if you’d like more art inspired by _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_.’

Garak smiled back and said: 

‘Then lead the way, Kelas.’ 

Parmak’s face split into a smile. Until that moment, Garak had not considered that Parmak might feel the same thing he did. 

‘With pleasure,’ he said, and they continued.

***

Garak had wondered when the infatuation would peter out. He was so used to it, it felt like an inevitability. It seemed impossible that he could stay this way, preoccupied like a schoolboy with a crush. Surely the adult brain would reject such childishness soon and stop the way his thoughts would always wander to Parmak.

As the octads passed, he realised, to his surprise and delight, that that never came. This was not, like many of Garak’s relationships had been, a means to an end. A connection had formed between them of a kind that Garak had resigned himself he had grown too old for. Parmak did not bore him – far from it. Whenever they met, they would talk, discuss and argue. Twice, they had been so caught up in their conversation that Tulet had told them to leave unless they wanted to be locked in the bar until he opened again in the evening. They would go home and continue their discussions. A few times, when neither had commitments the following day, they continued until dawn. They talked about literature, art, music, sometimes even holodramas. They had made it a habit to go to the museum every octad, on Daret, and roam around until they found one another. To other visitors, they looked like acquaintances who exchanged opinions about the art. To the guards, they were just friends with similar habits. Garak had even allowed Parmak to convince him to go to the holo-theatre once. The darkness had made the large room shrink and had unsettled him, but the way Parmak’s face was lit up by the projection and the excitement had been beautiful. 

The truth was, despite all the arguing, that there was little he would not do if Parmak asked him. Everything about him gave Garak an uncomfortable but thrilling feeling in his stomach: the way he would comb his fingers through his hair when he read, the little nasal squeak he made when he thought Garak made a stupid mistake in his reasoning, the way his _chuva_ dipped between his iliac arches. Six octads into the routine, he dared to think it: _I’m in love._

There was only one line Garak had no interest in crossing. They did not talk about themselves. Their lives outside culture and each other were a mystery. Early on, he had speculated about what Parmak did for a living, without cheating and searching through the books in his study, but he had stopped wondering. It made no difference to him. He spent his days collecting and working through information. Not having it was a luxury. 

For Parmak, however, ignorance was a frustration. Sometimes, Garak could sense him weighing whether to ask a question or not. Most of the time, he knew how to distract him from it. He would simply say something appreciative about enigma tales, or criticise the Ghemorran school of sculpture or, if they were in bed, lean over and gently bite his neck ridge. Only once, two months into their relationship, did he failed to ward him off.

‘Tell me about your family,’ Parmak said, propping himself up on his elbows. 

‘Nosy,’ Garak murmured. He pretended to be falling asleep, but he could not have been very convincing. Parmak leaned in and blew in his ear. Garak shot up, swearing. Parmak laughed. 

‘You think that’s going to help your case?’ Garak said, rubbing his ear. 

‘It’s just a question,’ Parmak said, trying to sound innocent. ‘I’m curious.’ 

‘It’s a very unattractive quality, curiosity.’ 

‘Why are you so reluctant to talk about this?’ His grin was gone now, his tone more sober. 

Garak sighed. 

‘My family is… complicated.’ 

‘I’m sure I could get my head around it,’ Parmak said. ‘I’ve been known to be rather clever.’ 

‘It defies explanation, my dear,’ Garak said and lay down again. Parmak snorted. 

‘At least let me try to understand. Do you have brothers and sisters?’ 

‘Not as such.’ 

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ 

‘It’s a no.’ _More or less._ He could not explain the six, legitimate, half-siblings on his father’s side. 

‘Are your parents alive?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

Parmak shifted on the mattress. 

‘My mother is dead.’ 

Garak looked over at him, startled by this sudden admission. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said sincerely. ‘When did it happen?’ 

‘I was ten. My older sister was fifteen. My younger sister was still in the egg.’

‘Was that why she died?’ Garak asked. Parmak moved closer and rested his head on his chest. 

‘Not directly, but it might have contributed,’ Parmak said. ‘She suffered an aortic dissection – that is, the inner layer of the main artery in her chest burst.’ 

Although there was sadness in his voice, he spoke matter-of-factly. Garak did not think he would be able to do that if it had been his mother. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, meaning it. ‘What about your sisters?’ 

‘They’re both alive,’ Parmak said. ‘My father as well. We don’t talk much.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘He’s always been a quiet man. He has a certain… disapproving air about him.’ Then he looked up at Garak. ‘What about your father? Are you close?’ 

He did not know how to answer. Yes, they were. Enabran Tain was possibly the person he was closest to in the world. At the same time, he barely knew him. Their closeness was that of mentor and protégé, not father and son. He had never been told outright that he was Tain’s son, although he had been able to surmise it from an early age. Only once had Tain treated him like a son. It was one of his earliest memories, and one of his most cherished. 

‘Elim?’ 

‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not close.’ 

Parmak watched him, brow furrowed around his chufa.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said. ‘I just…’ He broke off. ‘I know so little about you, or your life.’ 

Garak swallowed, hard. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not good with confidences.’ 

‘Why?’ Parmak asked, firmly but gently. 

Garak shrugged. 

‘All the usual reasons. You never know who you can trust.’ 

Parmak sighed.

‘I know,’ he said honestly. Not for the first time, Garak reflected that being an invert was not unlike being a spy. You learned to recognise your own kind by small cues, you feared exposure and operated only in secret. That, added to the usual unease that most Cardassians felt, knowing that they could be watched at any time, was bound to make anyone cautious. For Garak, those things were not what he feared. He was the one who watched, after all, and that was why he could not answer. Often, he would lie. With Parmak, he preferred to just be silent. 

Parmak stroked his cheek. 

‘Put it out of your mind,’ he said. ‘Let me ask you a simpler question.’ 

‘And what might that be?’ Garak asked.

‘How do you feel about Bajoran kissing?’ 

‘It’s a strange habit,’ he said. ‘It can’t be hygienic.’ 

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Parmak said. ‘But it’s pleasant.’ 

He moved his face closer to Garak’s, pursed his lips and pressed them against the corner of Garak’s mouth. 

‘Why do they do it?’ Garak asked. ‘The Bajorans?’ 

Parmak pressed another kiss onto his cheek. 

‘The lips and tongue are very sensitive. There are more nerve endings in them than the tips of your fingers.’ 

‘ _My_ fingers?’ 

‘Yes,’ Parmak said. ‘It’s true of both Cardassians and Bajorans.’

‘They why do they kiss, and we don’t?’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘I don’t know. Different traditions, I suppose. At some point, it was adopted as a show of romantic interest among them, which never happened here.’ He moved up a little and kissed the centre of his _chufa_. Garak trembled. 

‘I think it’s growing on me,’ he said. Parmak smiled down at him. 

‘Would you like to try it the way they do it?’ 

Garak smiled. 

‘Go on.’ 

Parmak cupped his face in his hands and leaned down. He put his lips against Garak’s for a moment, then drew back. Garak reached up and grabbed him by the neck, pulling him close again. This time, Parmak let the kiss linger. Garak pursed his lips against his. Parmak’s lips slipped from his took Garak’s lower lip between his teeth. The tips of their tongues touched. 

‘I could get used to this,’ Garak said against his mouth. 

Parmak hushed him and kissed him again, deeper this time. Garak did not complain.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: panic attacks, mentions of homophobia, references to torture and death of OC. Also, Enabran Tain, who is a trigger warning in himself.

Garak had never felt bad about lying in his life, though with Parmak, he took no pleasure in it. Then there were the moments he was intensely grateful that he was not the kind of man to tell the truth. Late one Daret afternoon, he found himself in an interrogation room with a corpse. 

It had been quick – just a sudden, painful gasp and then nothing. The man’s head hung back, open-mouthed. Garak had stood frozen for a long moment before daring to reach out and try to find a pulse. There was not one to be found. He looked down at the scalpel in his other hand. The cuts on the man’s neck-ridge were clean and precise, deep enough to remove the scale but shallow enough not to reach the muscle. Nature must be at fault, not he. 

Garak let the scalpel fall onto the tray of instruments. It clinked against the metal. The disquiet he had felt during the long, fruitless interrogation was changing character. The familiar pain in his chest started up again. He crossed to the comm-panel by the door. 

‘I need to see Tain,’ he said into it. He stayed close to the door, with his back against the wall. He did not want to approach the corpse again. Apart from the position of the head, he sat just like he had in life. The restraints on the chair kept him frozen in the moment of death. 

The door opened.

‘Tain.’ Straightening up, Garak bowed his head in greeting. Enabran Tain stepped into the light. His face was impassive as he looked from Garak to the dead man. Then his lip curled in disgust. 

‘You got carried away, Elim.’ 

‘With all due respect, I didn’t,’ Garak said. ‘I knew what I was doing.’ 

Tain poked the man’s head. It lolled to one side. 

‘This is not what success looks like.’ He stepped away from the corpse, towards Garak. ‘This man had valuable information.’ 

‘I did not push anywhere near as hard as I could have,’ Garak said. ‘He must have had a weak heart. There was no way I could have known that.’ 

He should have known what was coming. Tain’s arm shot up, moving faster than a man of his age and build should be able to. He slapped him over the face with the back of his hand. Garak doubled over in pain and surprise. 

‘This is the reason why there are sensors on that tray,’ Tain said. ‘Next time, use them.’ His voice dropped to something not much more than a whisper. ‘I don’t want this to happen again, Elim.’ 

Garak pulled himself up, but he did not seem able to stand at his full height. He could not meet the spymaster’s eye. 

‘Yes, Tain.’ 

Tain made a noise of disgust.

‘Deal with the body.’ He turned and left. When the door closed behind him, Garak felt able to move again. He straightened his back. When he reached out to undo the restraints on the chair, he saw that his hand shook. 

Garak rushed through the procedure to having the body moved to one of the vast cryogenic chambers for biological specimens. Usually, the fact that Obsidian Order saved everything that came into their possession, including corpses, did not faze him, but today, the thought of those cold rooms filled with people who had died in their custody disturbed him. How many of them, he wondered, had gone like that man, not through intentional violence but because of some small flaw hidden inside their bodies? 

As soon as the procedure was complete, Garak called for his skimmer. Once the notice that the disposal was complete came, he called his skimmer round. The driver – a tall young woman in the livery of government support staff – greeted him, as politely as ever. Garak was not sure if he answered. He sank back into the seat and closed his eyes. Now, sitting still in the moving skimmer, he could feel his entire body trembling. The sound of his heart in his ears was deafening. Something in his chest gave a twinge. He swallowed and forced himself to draw a slow breath. The image of the corpse’s face flashed before his eyes. 

This had never happened to him before. He had had people go into paroxysms during interrogation. Once a suspect had even suffered a minor stroke in the middle of questioning. At times, prisoners would be found dead in their cell and, naturally, people had died during his ministrations, through prolonged pain and shock. In those cases, Garak had been able to see the life seeping out of them. He had known they were dying, and could ease off or keep going, whatever he felt was the best way to get the information he needed. This had been different. The man had clearly been scared and he had been in some amount of pain, but he had been lucid. Then he had made a strange gasping sound, his head had fallen back and he was gone. It was a pitiful, mundane death of a kind with which Garak had never come into contact. Tain had been right. He should have monitored the man’s vitals. Perhaps the devices would have picked up on what was about to happen and his death – that death, at least – could have been averted. But maybe, even if he had used the sensors, the man’s heart would still have given out. For all his planning and care, Garak might have no control here. The blood pounded against his eardrums. 

‘Sir?’ 

He looked up, startled. The driver was watching him in the rear-view mirror.

‘Is this not the right address?’ she asked. Garak looked out of the shimmer window. They were parked just outside his house. 

‘No, it’s right,’ he said. ‘Apologies.’ 

He got out of the skimmer and dismissed it as fast as he possibly could. His head was spinning, and for a moment he feared he was going to pass out on the street. He managed to get through the front-door and into the lift without incident. He kept his eyes closed the entire ride, trying not to think of how close the walls were. Usually, he took the stairs, but his legs felt like they might buckle under him, and he did not trust he could make it all the way. Leaning against the wall of the lift, he felt how the twinge in his chest grew into an insistent sharp pain. When he heard the lift stop and the doors open, he fumbled his way outside and did not open his eyes until he was on the landing. 

His surroundings felt divorced from his presence. This was his own front-door, his hallway, his shoes lined up inside, but it all felt strange and far away. Somehow, he made his way inside and sat down in an armchair. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, but with every inhale, the pain in his chest became a little worse for a moment. However much he tried, he could not stop thinking about the man in the interrogation room. _What dramatic irony, if I die in the same way on the same day!_ Garak thought. It struck him as almost amusing. Then it was no longer funny, and instead he thought: _Ancestors, I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want the last my father sees of me to be me cowering like a kicked hound._

The door-chime sounded. Garak whipped around, thinking through possible escape routes. He stood up slowly and moved to the wall, then edged into the hallway. He was about to reach for the disruptor hidden in the chest of drawers when he stopped himself. Why did he assume this was danger? Right now there were no active threats against his life. The door-chime sounded again. Keeping the rest of his body as still as possible, he reached out and pressed the button to call up the visual feed. The position of the camera and the spherical lens gave the image an odd dimension, but the man standing outside, his hand clutching the strap of his messenger bag, was unmistakable. Cancelling the visual feed, Garak unlocked the door. Parmak had started turning away, but looked up at the sound. 

‘Elim!’ He pushed inside, not waiting to be invited in. The door closed behind him. ‘I was worried. Where were you?’ 

‘What?’ Garak asked. He felt there was something he had missed. 

‘It’s Daret,’ Parmak said. ‘We were supposed to meet at the museum.’ 

Garak exhaled. 

‘Kelas, I’m so sorry.’ He searched for some explanation. ‘I had a bad day at the office.’ 

Parmak looked at him with a frown. 

‘You don’t look well,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’ 

‘Nothing,’ Garak said. The look of concern on Parmak’s face was almost worse than the pain. 

‘It’s nothing serious. I think,’ Garak said. ‘I just feel out of sorts.’ Unable to stop himself, he rubbed his ribs. ‘I have a pain in my chest.’ 

Gently, Parmak took him by the elbow. 

‘Come on.’ He led him into the living room and made him sit down on the sofa. ‘Have you had it before?’ 

‘Now and again.’ 

‘Since when?’ 

Garak tried to think. 

‘I have no idea. Years ago, I think.’ 

Parmak pressed his shoulder. Then, with his other hand, he reached out. Garak thought he was going to touch his cheek, but instead he put his fingers against his temple, taking his pulse. Garak flinched away in surprise. Parmak’s hand followed him, pressing the pads of his fingers against the blood-vessels. 

‘Keep still, please,’ he said. Garak forced himself to not move away. Parmak moved his hand to Garak’s chin and turn his face towards him. There was something new about his gaze. He did not look at him as much as inspect him. When he let go of his chin, Garak spoke. 

‘You’re a doctor.’ 

Parmak glanced up at him and smiled. 

‘Yes. I thought you knew that.’ 

It should have been obvious to him earlier, he thought. He recalled reflecting on Parmak’s uncommonly short claws the first time they met. That was a common grooming practice among medical professionals, as claws could wear through gloves.

‘I’d like to take a closer look at your chest. Would you open your jacket?’ he asked. His voice was clear and calm in a way it usually was not. Garak undid the fastenings. ‘Is the pain worse when you breathe in?’ 

‘Yes,’ Garak said. ‘But I know what a broken rib feels like. This sits deeper.’ 

‘It could be a transverse rib fracture,’ Parmak said. ‘That feels quite different than a horizontal fracture.’ He pushed the jacket aside and looked at Garak’s chest. ‘Show me where the pain is.’

‘To the left. Around here.’ 

Parmak put his hand there and palpated. Every time he applied pressure somewhere new, he paused to look for a reaction. Garak tried to stay still, fighting the urge to pull away in case his touch made the pain worse, but it did not. Parmak gave him a brief smile before turning to his bag and getting out a medical scanner. Just the sight of it made Garak a little nervous.

‘This isn’t necessary.’

‘Humour me,’ Parmak said with a smile. Somehow, that made Garak more worried than some harsher response would have. His shoulders slumped in a sign of defeat. Parmak did not move. ‘May I?’ he asked.

Garak nodded. Parmak pressed his fingers against his chest again, looking for some anatomical point. When he had found it, he placed the medical scanner there. The metal was cold against his skin, making him draw a sharp breath.

‘Try to relax,’ Parmak said and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Keep breathing. Deep, big breaths. Just like that.’ 

He took his time scanning, moving the device several times. Eventually, he took it from his chest. 

‘There,’ he said. ‘All done.’ 

Garak pulled the jacket closed and redid the fastenings. He felt exposed, having had his lover inspect his internal organs like that. 

‘Well?’ 

Parmak reviewed the data that the scanner had collated, then he looked Garak in the eye and smiled. 

‘Your heart is perfectly healthy. Your lungs are clear. Your vascular system is in good shape.’ 

Garak processed this information. 

‘There’s nothing wrong with me?’ 

‘Not physically,’ Parmak said. 

‘I’m not imagining this,’ Garak said. His voice was louder than he intended, but he could not seem to control it. His breathing was growing fast and shallow. ‘My heart is racing and I’m in pain… This is real…’ 

Parmak put his hands on his shoulders and hushed him, like one would a child. Garak wanted to push him away, but instead he found that the hushing worked. 

‘Deep breaths.’ 

Garak forced himself to keep the air in his lungs longer before breathing out. He felt a little better. 

‘There has to be something,’ he said, exhausted and angry that this tenderness helped. Parmak smiled gently.

‘I’m not saying you’re imagining anything, Elim,’ he said. ‘Your pulse is elevated, but it’s strong and steady, and there’s nothing to indicate it’s being caused by anything worrying. The pain in your chest is as real if you stubbed your toe, but there’s no occlusion or deformity or rupture that would cause it. Your brain is sublimating stress into pain.’ 

Garak leaned back. He hated it, but all the same he knew he was right. Parmak moved and tried to make eye-contact, but Garak looked away. 

‘Have you had these kinds of symptoms before? Chest-pains, hyperventilation, dizziness, a sense of panic?’ 

Resignedly, he nodded. 

‘We call it acute emotional catalepsy,’ Parmak said. Garak had heard that before, of course, but he had not considered that that was what sometimes happened to him. ‘It’s not physically dangerous,’ Parmak continued, ‘but it can be an indication that something isn’t right. Have you been under any kind of strain recently?’

‘No,’ Garak said, automatically, then immediately stopped himself. He was so used to lying that he barely thought before doing it. Admitting something like that was usually a sign of weakness, especially if the question came from a physician. The doctors employed by the Obsidian Order seemed to live for the opportunity to order painful and humiliating tests. Reminding himself who was asking, Garak said: ‘My work can be stressful sometimes.’ 

‘Has it been, recently?’ 

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Today was hellish.’

Parmak smiled sympathetically.

‘That’s just the kind of thing that causes this,’ he said. ‘Are you getting enough sleep?’

‘No less than usual.’ Whether it was really enough was an entirely different question, and one he did not know the answer to. 

‘How’s your appetite?’ 

‘Fine.’

‘When did you last shed?’

Garak had to think. 

‘Three months ago.’

‘How was it?’ 

‘As usual,’ Garak said. ‘Normal.’ 

Parmak reached into his bag. 

‘Have you had anything to drink today?’ he asked.

Garak nodded. 

‘Tea, water…’ 

‘I meant anything alcoholic.’ 

He shook his head. 

‘No.’ 

‘In that case, I could give you something – a mild sedative,’ Parmak said, pulling out a small case. ‘Just to take the edge off.’ 

‘No,’ Garak said quickly. ‘I don’t want anything.’ He was already feeling out of control. Artificial calm felt like a horrifying prospect. Parmak nodded to show he understood and put the case back. 

‘Alright.’ Now, when he reached out towards his face, it was not to take his pulse but to stroke his hair. Garak felt a fraction of the tenseness disappear. 

‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘For…’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘Reassuring me.’ 

Parmak leaned in close and touched their chufar together. Garak sighed at the intimate gesture. The professional façade was gone, and he was Kelas again. After a while, he broke the contact and smiled.

‘Have you had dinner?’ he asked. 

‘No.’ 

He got off the sofa and went into the kitchen. Garak could hear him opening cupboards and looking through the fridge. After a while, Parmak came back. 

‘You barely have anything edible in there,’ he said and sat down on the sofa again. ‘Don’t you cook?’ 

‘I know how to, but I tend not to have time,’ Garak said. 

Parmak shrugged and smiled. 

‘Then we’ll order something.’ 

He headed for the comm-unit, humming to himself. Garak shifted positions on the sofa. The pain had lessened, but instead he felt an exhaustion strong enough to loosen his joints. The prospect of sitting doing nothing was not appealing, so he picked up the novel he had been reading. He could not really concentrate on it, but it was not the kind of literature that required it. From the kitchen, he could hear Parmak opening cupboards and drawers, searching for plates and cutlery. Deciding to indulge himself, he toed off his shoes and stretched out on the couch. He put his head back against the armrest, only for a moment. 

The next thing he knew, Parmak was gently touching his arm. 

‘Elim?’ 

Garak opened his eyes and pushed himself up.

‘I apologise, I must have…’

‘It’s alright,’ Parmak said, smiling. ‘You probably needed it. How are you feeling?’ 

Garak tried to find the answer to that. 

‘A little better.’ 

‘It’s a wonder what a little sleep can do,’ Parmak said and turned to the table, where a tray stood. ‘Same goes for food. I got us Tavarian stew.’ He handed Garak a bowl of rich-smelling stew, on top of which balanced two slices of bread.

‘Are you honestly suggesting eating on the couch?’ Garak asked.

‘Definitely,’ Parmak said, took his shoes off and sat down on the other end of the couch, stretching out his legs towards Garak. Throwing his braid over his shoulder to keep it out of the food, he started eating, scooping up bits of stew with the bread in traditional Tavarian fashion. Garak thought of mentioning what the upholstery of the couch had cost and that he had always found Tavarian table-manners appalling. The scathing comments did not want to form properly, though. His heart was not in it. He was feeling too worn for such things. Instead, he mimicked Parmak’s pose and started eating. For a while, they did not speak. Garak struggled to eat with the bread, then gave up and took a spoon from the tray. He was realising just how hungry he was. He caught sight once or twice of Parmak watching him over the edge of his glasses, perhaps looking for symptoms or just making sure he ate. 

‘This was an excellent choice,’ Garak said when he felt steady enough to talk. 

‘Glad you like it.’ Parmak bit off some of the bread he had used for transferring stew to his mouth. When he had swallowed it, he said: ‘Can I ask you something?’ 

‘You know how I feel about questions,’ Garak said, fully expecting that Parmak would ignore him. He did.

‘Did you really not know I was a doctor?’ 

‘I didn’t,’ he admitted. ‘You don’t look the part.’ 

‘Don’t I? What part do I look?’ 

‘You know that full well.’ 

‘Tell me anyway.’ 

‘You look like a deviant eccentric,’ Garak said. 

‘Did you consider that I could be both a deviant eccentric and a doctor at the same time?’ 

‘Not in the long run, I would expect.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘You’d be surprised.’ He paused to lick stew off his fingers. ‘Besides, I’m sure there is more to you than meets the eye.’ 

‘What do you think you see?’ Garak asked, amused by the turn of the conversation. 

‘A dedicated servant of the State,’ Parmak said. ‘Though rather better dressed than most.’ 

Garak smiled. 

‘There is not much more,’ he said. ‘Except that I have a talent for sewing.’ 

‘I could have told you that,’ Parmak said. 

‘You couldn’t know that I didn’t have a tailor.’ 

‘It’s not just the clothes.’ He put his empty bowl aside and leaned closer, taking Garak’s hand. ‘You have a callus here,’ he said, indicating one of his fingers. ‘That must be from a thimble. People don’t wear thimbles to sew on a button. You have to do more than that to know how to use one.’

Garak released his hand. 

‘Impressive.’ 

Parmak leaned back. 

‘Is that really what you are?’ he asked. ‘A dedicated servant of the State?’ 

‘I work for the Ministry of Agriculture,’ Garak said. He was so used to the lie that he barely had to think about it. Parmak smiled.

‘Now that you don’t look like,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine you farming.’ 

‘I’ve never done any farming in my life,’ Garak said. ‘I just do a lot of paperwork about it.’ He put aside his bowl. ‘I’m quite a good gardener, though.’ 

‘Then why not live in a house, with a garden?’ 

‘On a civil servant’s salary? Impossible. I take care of my father’s garden instead.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘Where is that?’ 

‘North of Tarlak.’ 

‘Not in Coranum?’ 

Coranum, one of the most well-off in the Union Capital, was just where Tain’s house was located, but Garak said: 

‘No.’ 

‘I’d like to see it sometime,’ Parmak said. Then, catching sight of Garak’s face, he added: ‘I realise that would be difficult. It’s just… I’d like to see your garden.’ 

Garak relaxed. He wanted to show Parmak that too - his Edosian orchids, and the Bajoran lilies, and the _mondak_ flowers he had been growing recently. He felt a pang of regret that he could not take him there, but it was impossible. Tain was too well-known, his position far too public. It would reveal things about Garak he did not want his lover to know, and, if Tain learned about Parmak, it might put him in danger. 

Garak was under no illusions that his father knew of his proclivities. He suspected that once or twice, he had paid off policemen and officials to make embarrassing material about him disappear. However, he was certain that this was not down to any sympathy for his inversion, or any paternal affection. Tain was as disgusted by sexual deviance as any sensible Cardassian. If he helped his son out of compromising situations now and then, it was not because he thought the laws were wrong, like some bleeding-heart Federation sympathiser, but because Garak was a useful agent, and it would be a shame to lose him over such a silly thing as his amatory missteps. 

‘Elim? What’s on your mind?’ 

He bit back his automatic “nothing”. 

‘What do you think causes this?’ 

‘Prolonged low-level stress. Not taking care of yourself.’ 

‘No, I didn’t mean that. This.’ He waved a hand between the two of them. ‘Inversion.’ 

‘I see,’ Parmak said. ‘I don’t really like that word, you know.’ 

‘Do you prefer “deviant”?’ 

‘Of course I don’t,’ he said, but smiled. ‘I consider myself a philandrist.’ 

‘That’s a ridiculous term,’ Garak said. 

Parmak let the question of terminology fall. 

‘There’s not much Cardassian research on the causes. I knew someone who wanted to study it, but naturally, it was impossible. Her colleagues persuaded her to change direction even before the funding stage. So what there is is mostly Federation science, done on mammal species. That seems to indicate there is a combination of factors, mainly genetic and hormonal. I’d expect it’s something similar for Cardassians.’ 

Garak put his head back against the armrest. 

‘What a perfectly scientific answer, Doctor.’ 

‘I wasn’t going to say it’s because of a broken moral compass.’ 

‘Isn’t it?’ he asked. 

‘Of course not.’

Garak put his arm over his head and sighed. The idea that this was not somehow wrong was strange to him. Parmak must have sensed it, because he rubbed his leg affectionately. 

‘My recommendation is not to think about this right now.’ He let his hand slide down Garak’s leg, cupped his heel and lifted his foot onto his lap. Then he peeled off his sock and started working the sole with his thumbs. 

‘What are you doing?’ Garak murmured, although it felt quite nice. 

‘I’m giving you a foot-rub, obviously.’ He could hear the smile in Parmak’s voice. ‘You do a lot of standing for a bureaucrat.’ 

‘I pace.’

‘I can tell.’ Parmak pushed his thumbs against Garak’s foot and traced them up to the toes. Garak felt himself relax into the sofa. He kept his eyes half-open, watching him massage his foot slowly and methodically.

‘You’re a strange bird, Kelas,’ he said. 

Parmak smiled. 

‘Am I really?’ 

‘I love you for it.’ 

It was not until Parmak’s hands stopped moving that Garak realised what he had said. 

‘I love you too,’ Parmak said. ‘For all your silliness.’ He shifted on the sofa, sinking a little lower down. ‘Now, just try to relax, and let me give you a foot-rub.’ 

Garak leaned back and felt some of the tension in his body disappear. Sometimes his eyes would drift shut, but then he would open them a little to look at Parmak. He loved him. He wondered if he had ever said that to anyone before. Despite that love, he lied with an ease that he was sure would alarm Parmak. Was that not a sign that something was wrong with him? The prospect did not bother him, really – his nature made him good at what he did – yet he wondered what it would be like to be like Parmak, comfortable in his own skin and honest to a fault. _It’s not worth it,_ Garak thought, closing his eyes again. _Honesty and compassion gets you killed._ Nevertheless, he vowed that he would do anything to stop that from happening to Parmak.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: torture, sexual situations, references to homophobia.

The next morning, they left separately as they always did. Garak left first. His experience with surveillance was that most people would assume that when the owner of a property left, it was empty. When he came out of the front door, he immediately noticed the non-descript skimmer parked on the other side of the street. He only let his eyes run over it once, not stopping in his stride as he headed to the tram-stop. There was no doubt in his mind that the skimmer belonged to the Order. It was common practice to keep an eye on operatives, but Garak had never known them to be so obvious about it. Were they trying to spook him, or just being sloppy? Had he noticed it yesterday, he would have assumed something sinister was going on, but today, the paranoia that had beset him last evening felt far away. Only one worry remained.

When he arrived at the headquarters, there was still an hour until his first meeting. Deciding that it was better to deal with this now instead of letting it fester, he left his coat and bag in his office and headed towards the medical wing of the compound. Garak thought Parmak was right when he said stress was the reason for his reaction last night, but there was one thing Parmak could not rule out. Garak had heard horror-stories, though never more than second- or third-hand gossip between operatives, of the cerebral implant malfunctioning and causing a slow and painful death. The implant was designed to not appear on the type of scanner Parmak had used last night, although he thought he might be able to see the scarring if he looked close enough. Garak doubted he would be able to assess if there was anything wrong with the wire based on that. 

No, for this, he could not rely on Parmak. He had to ask a doctor who was familiar with the intricacies of classified biotechnology. The prospect of that did not do much to calm him. He did not have the faintest idea how he would explain his symptoms without tipping them off that he was reacting adversely to stress, which would lead to time-consuming evaluations, probing questions and the horrible possibility of suspension. Neither did he know how to explain the fact that he had already been examined by a doctor who had excluded pulmonary and cardiovascular issues as the cause. To some extent, that concern was based simply on that he hated the thought of being put through a thorough examination by an unsympathetic physician. It would eat into his schedule and be equal parts uncomfortable and degrading. For the most part, however, he worried because it was expressly against regulations to see any non-Order medical professionals. The reasons were many, ranging from the risk of biotechnology being compromised or tampered with, to the medical history of individual operatives falling into the wrong hands. If they found out about this, both he and Parmak would be in trouble. 

When he was ushered into the examination room, it struck Garak how similar it was to the interrogation rooms on the other side of the compound. The strong lamp at the table even looked like it might be the same make. There were no medical scanners in sight, but other instruments were laid out on metal trays under see-through coverings: clamps, lancets, specula. He was sure that Parmak did not have the tools of his trade on display like that. It was simply a way of intimidating patients. Much as he hated to admit it, it worked. 

Garak’s first instinct was to pace, but he did not want to have to look at the trays of instruments. Some devices would not have been out of place among his own tools, while others he could not name, much less knew what they did (although, to his dismay, he could imagine). Instead, he remained standing, as there were no chairs and he did not want to sit up on the table sooner than he had to. Set in the middle of the room, it was too exposed. He supposed it might make the doctor’s job easier, but it struck him as another intimidation tactic. Even for people who had not been trained to be nervous about having their back unguarded, it would be unsettling. 

Turning inwards, he comforted himself with the thought of Parmak. He wondered what the place where he worked looked like. It was nothing like this, he was sure. Garak did not even know his speciality, but he could see him as an amiable general practitioner, the type adored by the old and trusted by the young. He probably had a position at a hospital too – there were too few qualified doctors for people only to work at their own practices. Wherever he worked, Garak imagined he would have a good hand with children, a compassionate calm around the sick, a cheerful countenance with the convalescing. 

His thoughts wandered back to last night. They had lain on the couch for most of the evening, conversation and silence taking turns. Parmak had stayed the night, although they had not done more than nuzzle. They had fallen asleep lying close together. At some point during the night, Parmak’s braid had come undone and had tickled Garak’s face enough to wake him. He had tucked the hair back behind Parmak’s ear, careful not to rouse him, and then settled down to sleep again. 

He loved him. So much of what he had said to Parmak last night had been lies, but that was true. Thinking about what he felt and that he had said it made him feel strong and vulnerable at the same time. It also brought with it an overwhelming urge show how he felt. He would go see him tonight, he decided. 

The door opened, and sour-looking woman stepped in. 

‘Elim Garak, was it?’ she said, looking down at her PADD. She was faking ignorance, of course. Everyone knew who he was. 

‘Yes,’ he said nevertheless. ‘Doctor Sebhat, if I’m not mistaken?’ 

One of her eye-ridges rose. Garak had a feeling she would have preferred if he had not known her name. 

‘Yes.’ She put the PADD down. ‘On the table, please.’

He heaved himself onto it, but remained sitting. He did not want to capitulate at once. Sebhat was already pulling on a pair of gloves – Garak wondered if Order doctors somehow saw touch itself as toxic. 

‘What brings you here?’ she asked.

‘I’d like my implant checked,’ he said. Sebhat shot him a look that made it clear that she thought he was an inconvenience. ‘Lately, I’ve had bouts of dizziness. The occasional headache.’ It was as close to the truth he wanted to come. ‘Perhaps it is nothing, but…’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Sebhat said, cutting him off. She got a scanner out of a drawer and moved the hand-held reader systematically over his head. Then she spent several minutes inspecting his eyes and mouth, followed by a string of imperatives: ‘Squint. Frown. Smile. Stick your tongue out. Shrug your shoulders. Bite down.’ Garak did what he was told and bore the pressing and poking. 

Eventually, Sebhat turned to one of the trays of tools. When she turned back, Garak could see that she was holding something, although he did not know what. She took hold of his arm. A moment later, something sharp ran across the back of his hand. 

‘Ouch!’ Instinctively, he pulled his arm out of her grip. His hand was bleeding from a shallow cut just between the knuckles. Sebhat gave him a piece of gauze and moved to dispose of the blade of the scalpel she had cut him with. 

‘Lie down.’

Garak lay back and pressed the gauze against his hand. The blood soaked through the fibres, forming a pattern like a spider’s web. He registered the sound of the doctor taking something from a drawer. When Sebhat returned to the table, she was carrying a device Garak did not think he had seen before. 

‘Give me your hand.’ 

He hesitated, trying to tell which hand she wanted. She reached out, took the gauze from him and pulled his injured hand towards her. He wondered if that device was some new kind of dermal regenerator, but she pressed it, not against the wound, but against his palm. He felt two cold metal protrusions digging into his skin. He wondered what…

Pain cut through his hand, making him scream. Then, in the same moment, it was gone. He felt light and content. There was no worry or discomfort or suffering. All he knew was the feeling of serenity that had enveloped him. He was aware of his body, but his surroundings had grown fuzzy. He knew he could move if he wanted to, but he saw no need. He just wanted to lie here in this state of bliss. 

Then, slowly, the feeling receded. The room around him came into focus. He could think again. The embarrassment flooded over him. He sat up and looked over his clothes. They were undisturbed. The state he had been been in had not been entirely sexual, but he was still relieved to see that he had not everted. His hand throbbed with pain. The skin on his palm was blistering. Some of it had been burned off. Garak looked away from it, feeling sick. 

‘There’s no deterioration of your cranial nerves, and your implant works just like it’s supposed to,’ Sebhat said. ‘It reacts to severe pain but not to minor pain.’ 

He dared to look at his hand. The wound between his knuckles was bleeding again. 

‘Someone will see to your hand as soon as there’s time,’ Sebhat said. Without another word, she left. He sank back onto the table, trying to regain his composure. It took almost twenty minutes before a nurse appeared and treated his wounds. He had to run part of the way to his first meeting and rushed in at the last minute, shaken and out of breath. 

For much of the day, he did not quite feel like himself. Even if the implant had only been activated for a few seconds, it had released enough endorphins that it took hours for it to leave his system. It no longer prevented pain, as the tenderness in his hand made clear, but it still affected his senses. Colours were brighter and sounds louder. He found it difficult to sit still. The tips of his fingers tingled strangely. During the morning meetings, he tried and failed not to fidget. When he returned to his office, he found he could not stay seated, but paced instead. 

By the afternoon, the endorphins had started to wear off. He managed to sit down and do some work. However, not an hour had passed before the doorbell chimed. 

‘Enter,’ he called. The door opened, and his visitor stepped in. ‘Ah, Senta.’ 

‘Garak, sir.’

‘What can I do for you?’ Garak asked.

Senta put a PADD down on his desk.

‘We just brought someone in.’ 

Garak picked up the PADD and weighed it in his hand. The jittery feeling had passed, but he was still feeling apprehensive about something that took this level of concentration. He unlocked the PADD with his thumb-print. A short message appeared.

> _To make up for your mistake yesterday.  
>  -T_

Garak rose.

‘Just let me change my suit.’

‘Of course, sir.’ 

Senta stepped outside and closed the door behind her. For a few moments, Garak simply stood, grounding himself. This would be easy, he told himself. Perhaps it was just what he needed to feel he had achieved something today. Besides, it was not like he had a choice. Tain himself had asked him to do it. He knew better than to say no. 

Garak shook himself. There was no use putting this off. He changed into his spare suit and took the PADD. Once again he looked at the message on it. How could he make up for what he had done the day before? It had been a mistake, and yet, that word was far too narrow. 

When he stepped out into the corridor, Senta nodded but did not speak. Garak was aware how she followed two steps behind him. As they reached the interrogation rooms, he asked: 

‘Which one?’ 

‘Room three, sir.’ 

The control panel beside the door to the interrogation room indicated that the room was occupied and the door locked. Garak tapped in his access code. For a moment, it calculated. Then the door unlocked with a sudden clang. Senta stood to attention, waiting for any final orders. Garak did not even nod. His mind was on the task ahead. He opened the door and stepped in.

The crying hit against him. It was so loud he was surprised it did not get through the sound-proofing. When Garak stepped closer to the prisoner, the sobbing rose to a wail. 

‘Please, please, don’t hurt me! Please, I beg you!’ 

He unlocked the PADD and looked over the information on it. His initial guess had been correct. 

‘Ghatara Metak.’ 

The scream died in her throat. Hearing her own name seemed to terrify the woman even more. Garak put the PADD aside and crossed to the table of tools.

‘I had the pleasure of meeting your husband yesterday.’ 

The woman’s breath hitched. 

‘Where is he?’ she whispered. ‘What did you do with him?’ 

‘All in good time.’ He picked up the sensors from the tray. Stepping closer, he got his first good look at her. She was younger than he had thought at first. Ordinarily, he supposed she would be pretty, but this room always took away any appealing qualities. Her eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused, and the dye from her chufa had smeared across her forehead. When he reached out to attach one of the sensors to her temple, she flinched and part of her hair fell down. Deftly, he took the hairpins between his claws and pulled them out. He did not want to leave her anything that could be used as a weapon, against others or herself. Her breath trembled with fear. Garak put the hairpins on the tray and attached the other sensors, one on her wrist and one on her neck. When he placed the last one, he felt her shivering. 

‘Please,’ she said. ‘You have to understand, sir, don’t hurt me. I’m carrying an egg. Please…’

‘What do you know about the Workers’ School of Learning?’ Garak asked. 

‘It-it’s a book club,’ she stammered. ‘A reading circle. My husband’s a member…’ 

‘Mrs Metak, we know full well that the WSL is a terrorist organisation.’ 

She sipped for breath. 

‘No, sir, you’re wrong. I don’t know what you mean…’ 

He turned away from her to the tray. His hand wandered over the tools, trying to choose the right one. Finally, he took the one that spoke to him. 

‘Did your husband ever organise meetings for the WSL in your home?’ he asked, his back turned to her.

‘Yes.’ 

‘Were you present?’ 

‘I just made the _gelat_ and took in the tray. They weren’t doing anything wrong, I swear.’ 

‘But you were not present?’ 

‘Only for a minute.’ 

He turned to face her. 

‘Then how can you know they were not doing anything wrong?’ 

‘They weren’t…’ The words turned into a scream when she caught sight of the pliers in his hand. The sensor-reader beeped, indicating her rising pulse.

‘What were they doing?’ Garak asked. 

‘Nothing! They were just talking…’ 

He put his hand over hers to keep it still. It was small, not much larger than a child’s. 

‘Please, please, no,’ she whispered. He closed the pliers around the claw of her little finger. 

‘What was your husband discussing?’ 

‘I don’t know - some book.’ 

He pulled. There were no words in the scream she let out, not even a voice behind it, only an animal howl. He left her sobbing in the chair as he put aside the pliers and wiped his hands. The pain rendered her incoherent for several minutes. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke again. 

‘Edan. I want to see Edan.’ 

‘Mrs Metak, you are in no position to make requests.’ 

‘Please, I just want to see my husband!’ 

Garak felt how just behind his skull-bone, the thought flitted past: _her husband is dead. He died in that chair, for no good reason. She is a widow and she doesn’t even know it._

‘You will in time, my dear, but not until you tell me what you know,’ he said. It was like she had not heard him. 

‘Edan!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs. Garak took hold of the pliers again. ‘ _Edan_!’ 

He did not pause this time, simply closed the pliers around the claw and pulled. The first time, she screamed. The second time, it turned instead to wordless sobs. She slumped in the chair, the uneven breaths shaking her body. Garak waited for her breathing to become steadier before speaking. 

‘Mrs Metak, what was your husband discussing?’ 

‘I don’t know the title of the book. I can’t read.’ 

‘Do you know the names of the other men who were present?’ 

She sobbed, then spoke. 

‘Evar Reman. Amin Talok. Gesin Theram. Zeyal Theram. Lem Dokal. Tarl Mavet. Alon Maran. Kesal Krim. Koral Zarka. Corat Monak.’

When Garak left the interrogation room, he had washed the blood off his hands, but he thought he could still feel the impression of the pliers against his palm. Senta snapped to attention when he stepped through the door. 

‘I want these names looked over.’

Garak handed her the PADD. He doubted that the Metaks’ flat would hold that many people. Some of them were probably correct, but plenty of them most likely had nothing to do with the WSL. It made little difference, really. Anyone who was named in an interrogation would be investigated. No doubt they were all guilty of something, if not this. 

‘But first, process her. I want her seen by a doctor. She says she’s gravid.’ 

‘You think she’s lying?’ Senta asked. Garak shook his head. 

‘No.’ 

‘Alright. I’ll see if Tegor is available.’ 

Garak appreciated that – Doctor Tegor had a better bedside manner than most of her Order colleagues – but did not say it. 

‘Then send her in front of the archon. Her charges are aiding an illegal group and spreading false propaganda.’ 

‘That won’t give her much time,’ Senta said. 

‘It’s enough,’ Garak said. ‘At some point, she should be informed that her husband is dead.’ 

‘I’ll see to it, sir.’ 

‘Thank you, Senta.’ 

He returned to his office. His matelassé suit hung where he had left it, unstained and well-pressed. The spare jacket he was wearing had pinpricks of blood on one sleeve. Garak wondered if they would wash out. He took off the jacket and put over the back of a chair, but he did not move at once. The idea of wearing it outside with the blood on the sleeve was unthinkable, but at the same time, he did not want to take his new jacket off its hanger. It was the same feeling when you had touched something dirty outside and even if you had washed you hands, they did not feel clean. He inspected his hands and nails. There was nothing on them. 

Garak shook himself and put his matelassé jacket back on. Writing the report of the interrogation was quick work. The warrants for the arrests of the people the prisoner had named took more time, but at least that had the possibility to lead somewhere. With all files logged, Garak took his coat and locked his office. He did not ask for his skimmer, but exited through a side-door, heading for the shuttle-station. The shuttle took him northwards, along the border of Tarlak. From the shuttle-station in Paldar, he changed to the tram.

This close to the end of the day, the tram was almost full. Garak stood, holding on to a leather strap and watching his fellow passengers. A mother and daughter sitting beside each other caught his eye. They were talking in hushed tones – even without the words, disagreement stood like miasma around them. The girl was young, seventeen at most, still in school regulation dress and with her hair in pigtails. Her mother sat hunched over to keep their conversation private, but had the bearing of a woman who never curved her spine for anything. Garak watched them for some time, trying to guess what the argument was about. Whatever it was was going to become very vicious once they got home. None of them had pressed the button, but when the tram stopped, the girl got to her feet. She hiked her bag onto her shoulder and collected her skirts with her free hand, as if to make sure her mother would not grab them. 

‘Pemal!’ the lady shouted after her, struggling to get up and follow. The girl was already in the aisle, out of her reach. She let go of her skirts, letting them fall. The pleated folds in the front were wrong. The spacing was off in relation to her body. Just as she passed him, Garak realised what he had seen - the shape of an egg, its shell hardening to protect the developing embryo. His first thought was that this must have been what she and her mother had been arguing about. The second one was that Ghatara Metak was no more than a year older than this girl. 

He hoped, oh he hoped, that his ministrations had not damaged her egg. His understanding was that pain and distress could make the oviduct contract and crack the shell, although he did not know if that was an unpleasant accident or a way for the body to choose the mother’s life over the child that would eventually hatch. Nothing had indicated that anything had gone wrong, but even a small imperfection in the shell could cause the egg to break when it was laid. Whatever happened to Ghatara Metak, she would build her nest in a prison camp. The egg, if it was viable, would be taken from her to a hatchery, and the hatchling would be placed in an orphanage. The child would be a ward of the state, with nothing to connect him to his revolutionary parents. The thought of that child made Garak deeply sad. 

The next stop was his. He got off the tram and headed towards Parmak’s street, hands in his pockets and head bowed. His feet knew the way themselves, carrying him to the right house and up the steps. 

The door opened almost as soon as he rang the bell. Parmak’s eyes grew in surprise. 

‘Elim! I wasn’t expecting you.’ He stepped aside to let Garak in, then closed the door behind him. They looked at each other for a long moment. ‘How are you?’ Parmak asked. Garak looked for the right words, even opened his mouth to speak, but he could not find them. Instead, he took Parmak’s face in his hands. Parmak looked at him, his eyes growing softer. Then he leaned close and touched their _chufar_ together. He stroked against his forehead, letting the ridges meet and slip aside. Then, tilting his head, he put his lips on Garak’s. Garak moved one of his hand from Parmak’s cheek to his shoulder, then draw back to look at him. Parmak was wearing his coat and had his braid stuffed down the back, like he always wore it when he was outdoors.

‘You’re about to go out,’ Garak said. It had been foolish of him to just turn up. 

Parmak shook his head. 

‘I was, but it’s not anything important.’ He unbuttoned his coat. 

‘I don’t want to impose…’ 

Parmak held up his hand, silencing him. 

‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘It was just a card game with some friends. I always lose anyway.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, you look like you could do with some company.’ 

He took his hand. Garak winced. Parmak let go and instead turned his hand palm-up. The area that had been burned was raw, an entirely different colour than the rest of his scales.

‘Oh dear. What happened to your hand?’ 

‘I picked up a kettle. As it turned out, someone had already boiled it.’ 

Parmak made a sympathetic sound. Then he raised Garak’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss onto it, just beside the tender area. When he looked up, he caught sight of the look in Garak’s eyes.

‘Elim?’ 

‘You’re too kind to me.’ 

Parmak stroked his hair. 

‘Nonsense.’ 

Garak did not answer. He could not speak his mind, that he had killed a man and torn out his gravid wife’s claws, and Parmak was willing to be with him. However much he craved it, he did not deserve his company or his kindness. He had tortured that poor girl, and then with the same mouth he had asked her questions, he had kissed the most good-hearted man he had ever met. The same hand that Parmak now held had held the pliers he had used on her. Garak pulled his hand away. He felt dirty, and for a strange moment, he feared that he would contaminate Parmak. How twisted must one’s actions be, he wondered, to make this, which everyone said was so wicked, seem pure? 

‘Elim, are you alright?’ 

Garak shook himself. 

‘Would you mind if I used your shower?’ 

‘Not at all.’ Parmak looked at him for a moment, searching for something in his face. ‘How about you shower, and I’ll call and make my excuses?’ 

Garak nodded. 

‘Good,’ Parmak said. He coaxed him out of his coat and found him a towel. ‘My dressing-gown is in there. Take your time.’ 

Garak took the towel Parmak pushed into his hands. 

‘Thank you,’ he heard himself say. Parmak pressed his shoulder and gave him a friendly nudge towards the bathroom. 

He undressed numbly, only pausing to hang up his suit by force of habit. The bathroom was bright, tiled in pale pink Galamite marble, but the image in his mind was that of the dim interrogation room, with the metal walls and hard floor. As he stepped into the shower, he found himself thinking about Ghatara Metak again. Round about now, she should have been processed and be taken to be charged. In the eyes of the law, she was guilty - anyone who overheard anything like the ideas the WSL propagated and did nothing would be. Nevertheless, Garak wondered whether morally, she was to blame. If all she had done was to bring her husband and his guests a tray of _gelat_ , had she done wrong? Despite all the public announcements urging people to report anything they heard, was it a crime if she did not understand what she had witnessed, or did not dare to do something? Was it really right to send her to a prison camp for at least a year and take her child away from her? 

He knew what Tain would say. “Never let sentiment get in the way of your work.” It was what he always said. It did not matter if Ghatara Metak could not conceivably have done anything different. She was an enemy of the state and should be punished. Her trial would be watched by other people like her, who, through anger at her or fear of becoming her, would do the duty she had neglected. It was not about her. It was about Cardassia. All Garak had to do was his duty. He was reminded of something else Tain had said, long before he had taught him about the ways of the Obsidian Order. _Do your chores, Elim._ That was all it was, he told himself. A chore, like scrubbing the pots or making the beds. 

He turned off the shower and stepped out. From the other room, he could hear voices, one Parmak’s, the other another man’s, distorted slightly by the comm. 

‘ _This of all nights!_ ’ 

‘I’m sorry, but I won’t be there. You will have to do without me.’ 

Garak pulled on the dressing-gown and listened. 

‘ _We need you here. Your input…_ ’ 

‘You won’t change my mind, Thelan. I’ll read the minutes as soon as they’re written, and I’ll give you my thoughts.’ 

Garak stepped out of the bathroom. He could hear the other man, Thelan, sigh. 

‘ _Fine._ ’ 

‘Thank you for understanding. I need to go.’

Garak stepped into the room just as Parmak broke the comm-link. He looked up and smiled. 

‘Feeling better?’ 

He nodded, although he was not sure. 

‘You write minutes for your card-game nights?’ 

Parmak broke into a smile. 

‘My friends are monomaniacs. They’re trying to make up a new set of rules to _harsa_. They keep very thorough records. It’s silly, really.’ 

‘ _Harsa_ could use new rules,’ Garak said. ‘It’s a tedious game.’ 

‘That’s easier to remedy by just playing something else,’ Parmak said and stood up. ‘Can I get you anything?’ 

Garak shook his head. Parmak stepped closer. He moved deliberately, giving him time to move away. His hand traced up the dressing-gown’s collar, then pushed it aside. His fingers ghosted over Garak’s neck-ridges and came to stroke the ridges under his ears. Garak shivered. Their mouths were close together now, but they did not touch yet. Parmak’s free hand slid inside the dressing-gown. He ran his finger-tips over his belly and let them dip into his chuva, rubbing slow circles at its centre. Then, following its point, he touched the outside of his ajan. It felt bold, touching him there so soon, but it was not premature. The contact made his breath tremble. Parmak smiled at his reaction. His fingers slid along the delicate scales. For a moment, the pad of his finger slipped in between the two ridges. 

Garak kissed him. He had grabbed him so suddenly that Parmak had to pull back his hand and grab his arm to keep his balance. Their lips bruised together, hard. Garak mirrored his lover’s grip and swung them both around to push Parmak against the wall. He traced his neck-ridges with his lips. Carelessly, he pulled his jacket open and licked at his _chula_. Parmak groaned. Garak felt his chest rise and fall against his face. He swallowed and stepped back a little. 

‘Elim?’ Parmak pushed his glasses up. ‘What’s the matter?’ 

He could not answer. In the heat of the moment, the aroused aggression had felt too much like real violence. Instead, he took Parmak by the elbows and again, spun them around. He pushed his own back against the wall. Parmak looked a little confused, but then he smiled. He stepped closer and nuzzled against his forehead. He leaned in closer, pressing him against the wall, and licked down his ridges. His hand was at his groin again, running his thumb in lazy circles on the chuva. Garak undid the last of the fastenings of Parmak’s jacket. Parmak pulled it off, throwing it carelessly over a chair. Garak was already undoing his flies, his fingers rubbing against him through the trousers. Their breath was coming fast, only slightly out of sync. They kissed again, mouth to mouth. Parmak moved his fingers from Garak’s chuva and instead rubbed at the exposed head of his prUt. He everted into his hand, filling his grip. 

‘Come on,’ Garak panted and led Parmak to the bed. He laughed as Garak pushed him back onto it. They stripped off his last clothes together. Garak knelt in front of the bed and put his mouth over the twin rows of scales between Parmak’s legs. Only a few licks, and he everted as well. Garak got off his knees and let the dressing-gown fall to the floor. He climbed onto the bed. Parmak followed him with his eyes. 

‘What do you want?’ he whispered. Garak reached out and lifted Parmak’s glasses off his nose. He leaned closer and said into his ear: 

‘Fuck me.’

Parmak made a surprised sound. 

‘That’s new.’ 

Garak, his mouth almost touching his skin, said: 

‘Should I say “please”?’ 

Parmak’s grin was answer enough. Garak lay back and, not looking away from him, spread his legs. Parmak covered Garak’s body with his. He guided his _prUt_ to his opening and pushed in. Garak gasped. His knees pulled up as if by their own will. 

‘Are you alright?’ Parmak said, pausing. 

‘Yes. Go on.’ 

He slid further in until Garak could feel the scales of his groin against his own. His braid had unravelled, leaving his hair hanging around his face. Garak wove his fingers into it. As Parmak moved inside of him, he did not look away from his eyes. Even when Parmak’s chuva pressed against his erection and his nerve-endings felt like they were catching fire, he did not close his eyes. He kept looking at him. It was only the orgasm itself which forced his eyes shut. Parmak pulled out and instead rubbed against him. Garak opened his eyes just in time to see Parmak’s face spasm as he came. He lay down, half on top of him, Garak’s hands still in his hair. Garak hugged him tightly. Parmak raised his head with some effort and looked at him. 

‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘I love you, Elim.’ 

It hurt, hearing those words. Garak realised now that not only had he never said it to anyone before, but no one had said them to him before yesterday. He remembered all too well what he had been told all through his training: love was a liability. It made you vulnerable. What they had not told him was that love was nothing you chose. Silence would not save either of them. 

‘I love you back,’ he said. Parmak smiled and put down his head on Garak’s shoulder. Garak combed his fingers through his hair as he dropped off. He lay awake, watching him sleep with a small smile on his lips. He wanted to press his mouth to his and take it from him, to keep it safe. Instead, he kissed him on the forehead and lay back, still stroking his hair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mental health issues, confined spaces, homophobia, violence, mentions of surgery
> 
> I have posted a list of characters and a map with relevant locations on my Tumblr for reference: http://apolesen.tumblr.com/post/180900698747/reference-post-for-love-in-a-time-of-oppression.

The following octad, they saw more of each other than before. Something had happened between them; the confidences they had shared had forged something new. 

As Daret approached, Garak realised that he had missed the art museum. When he left the Order complex and headed there, he was in a better mood than he had been for a long time. In the beginning, there had been times when he did not see Parmak for a octad. Now, he had last seen him the day before yesterday, and he felt like abandoning the leisurely pace he walked at and run the rest of the way to the museum. 

At this point of day, there were more people leaving the museum than entering it. Art students were tucking their sketch-books under their arms, elderly men and women were being led out by their young relatives, and school children were pairing up to get on the tram. When Garak stepped aside to let the thirty uniformed pupils pass, he spotted a skimmer parked down the street. The driver was reading a book that Garak recognised from the museum’s shop. It was not a bad cover, Garak thought, the cultured tourist who had become engrossed in his purchase and not driven off yet. Still, the colour and make of the skimmer gave it away. _I really must talk to someone about getting some new undercover vehicles,_ he thought. Despite his good mood, he felt a twinge of annoyance when he came closer to the entrance. That was not only an Order skimmer, but the very same he had seen parked outside his flat last octad. What did they take him for? he wondered. Did they want him to notice, or were they just assuming he wouldn’t? For a moment, the attention from his superiors unsettled him. Perhaps this was not routine, but about something. He thought of stories of operatives being framed by their colleagues for personal gain. Then he thought of the things that no one would have to frame him for, because he was already guilty of them. 

He pushed the worry aside. Instead, he returned to the promise of spending the rest of the day in Parmak’s company. He ascended the steps, passed through the foyer and entered the Bajoran gallery. He had heard about some recent acquisitions that he wanted to see, and he thought they might have drawn Parmak there too. Sure enough, when Garak entered the Bajoran gallery, Parmak’s white hair caught his eye. He sauntered towards him, stopping now and then to look at something. He was almost at his side when Parmak noticed him. He nodded imperceptibly, then turned back to the pottery he had been studying. Garak came to stand beside him. 

‘This is an extraordinary piece of primitive art,’ Parmak said in a tone like he was talking to a friendly stranger. 

‘Can something primitive be extraordinary?’ Garak asked. 

‘Naturally. What else would you call a clay vessel from five light years away and two millennia ago that is still relatable to us?’ 

‘They are no more than stick figures.’ 

‘There is elegance in simplicity,’ Parmak said. ‘But as with everything beautiful, you have to _allow_ yourself to see it.’ 

Garak looked at him and grinned. 

‘It’s good to see you,’ he said under his breath. Parmak smiled. 

‘It’s good to see you too.’ 

‘I heard about some ivory work that had been recently acquired,’ Garak said. ‘Have you seen it?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘Then shall we?’ 

Parmak bowed a little. 

‘I would be delighted.’ 

They walked slowly, side by side, from one case to the next. The Bajoran ivory pieces were intricate, the carving so small at times that he wondered if they had been done by someone very young. Within the abstract patterns, there were figures – maidens, warriors, vedeks. At times, Parmak would squint through his glasses to make out the details. Leaning close to one piece, he said: 

‘There’s a Cardassian soldier.’

Garak looked where Parmak pointed. The soldier stood stiffly, his broad chest puffed out. He was flanked by two Bajoran figures, one in religious robes and one in tunic and boots. The figures were static, not interacting with one another, but there was a message there, portraying the modern Bajor. The curators must have not recognised that third figure for what it was – a portrait of a Bajoran terrorist. It unsettled Garak to see it here, in the halls of great Cardassian art, but in a way he could not quite explain, it was also humbling. The Cardassian was not a caricature in any way, just like the Bajoran was not heroic. Even in the ivory, Garak could make out the worn clothes and the unkempt hair. He looked at it for a long time. Parmak shifted impatiently, and they moved on. As they walked, Garak studied him through the corner of his eye. 

‘Is anything the matter?’ Garak asked quietly, not looking up from the carved cup with religious symbols he was admiring. Parmak did not answer. Instead, he stepped from the glass cases to one of the paintings on the wall, a small canvas showing a city. Garak left the ivory exhibition too and went to stand by him. Parmak, registering his presence, was about to speak, but stopped himself as some other visitors passed them. When they were out of earshot he said: 

‘I need to ask you something.’ He pushed his glasses up his nose and clasped his hands behind his back, trying to hide his nerves. 

‘Oh?’ Garak said, still making out to study the painting. 

‘It’s something that has concerned me for a while now, and… I need to know.’ 

Garak glanced over at him. 

‘What is it?’ 

Parmak avoided his eyes. Instead, he looked at the painting when he spoke. 

‘You have a scar on your scalp.’ 

That was not what Garak had expected him to say. 

‘Yes.’ There was no denying that fact. 

‘It’s from brain surgery.’ 

Garak did not answer. Parmak looked at him, more directly than they usually did in public.

‘Please, Elim, you have to trust me with this,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent months worrying. I need to know.’ 

‘As you said yourself,’ Garak said. ‘It’s from an operation.’ 

‘But _why_?’ Parmak asked. ‘Please, I am so sick of wondering. I find myself looking at you like you were my patient, trying to find signs and symptoms. I…’ He paused, took a deep breath and continued, quietly but with urgency. ‘Please, if it’s something bad, I want to know.’ 

‘It’s nothing dramatic,’ Garak said. He had hoped he would not push – after all, he could not tell him the truth – but he would not hesitate to lie. ‘I fell off a riding hound and hit my head. There was some bleeding.’ 

‘“Nothing dramatic”?’ Parmak repeated. ‘If you had bleeding bad enough that they opened your whole skull, that’s very serious!’ 

‘I made an excellent recovery.’ 

‘How can you be so cavalier about this?’ he exclaimed. A man who had been sketching some of the ivory pieces had looked up from his work and was watching them. 

‘Will you keep your voice down?’ Garak said. ‘It was years ago. I’m perfectly fine.’ 

He stepped away, towards the next painting, but Parmak caught hold of his sleeve. 

‘You’re lying to me,’ he said urgently. ‘Tell me the truth.’ 

Garak turned to face him. Parmak recoiled at his cold gaze, but he did not let go. 

‘Is there any discrepancy between what I told you and what you have observed?’ Garak asked. 

Parmak blinked. 

‘No, but…’ 

‘Have I ever lied to you before?’ 

‘You always avoid my questions.’ 

He looked him in the eye. 

‘Have I ever lied to you before, Kelas?’ 

Parmak let his head fall. 

‘No.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, Elim.’ He looked up again. ‘It’s just…You never give me any answers, and I would tell you anything. Anything at all.’ 

Garak peeled Parmak’s hand off his sleeve. 

‘Don’t make such brash announcements without considering them, my dear.’ 

He walked away from him, but not far. As he looked at a Bajoran tapestry that took up most of one wall, he felt Parmak following him. He was glad he did – he did not want him to leave. They walked in silence, Garak first, then Parmak, looking at the art. After the best part of an hour, Garak said: 

‘Shall we go?’ 

‘Yes,’ Parmak said, quietly. Garak fought the urge to reach out. The argument felt stupid now, but he could not touch him like he wanted to in public. They left the gallery. In the entrance hall, Garak stopped and turned to look at the fresco of Mother Cardassia. He had been so focused on finding Parmak that he had not spared it more than a glance upon arrival. Parmak followed his eyes and pulled a face. 

‘It’s hideous, isn’t it?’ 

Garak looked over at him, shocked. 

‘“Hideous”!?’ Garak repeated. ‘It’s a beautiful piece of work.’ 

‘It’s vulgar,’ Parmak said. ‘So overblown. It’s…’ He searched for the word, then lowered his voice. ‘…such unsubtle propaganda.’

Garak stared. 

‘How can you say that?’ he asked. ‘That borders on treason.’ 

Parmak snorted. 

‘It’s an opinion about a piece of art,’ he said. ‘Not criticism against Central Command.’ 

He turned and walked off. Garak hurried after him. 

‘Do you have no sense of self-preservation?’ he hissed. ‘Saying that kind of thing in public!’ 

‘Everyone agrees it’s an eyesore,’ Parmak said, not looking at him. 

‘I don’t,’ Garak said. ‘I like it.’ 

‘Well then,’ Parmak snapped. ‘That’s all that counts.’ 

Garak bit back a retort. However appalled he was by what Parmak had said, this was not the time and place to fight about it. 

‘Let’s just go home,’ he said instead. Parmak pouted angrily. ‘Kelas, please. We’ve caused enough commotion for one day.’ 

He sighed. 

‘Fine.’ 

They walked to the shuttle side by side, but did not talk. Out of the corner of his eye, Garak saw the surveillance skimmer. When the shuttle arrived, the skimmer’s engines started up. Resolutely, he did not look at it. He had a good mind to tell Tain that if they were going to tail him, they should have the decency to do it more discreetly. Right now, however, he was more worried about leading the skimmer to Parmak’s house. He could take a different tram when they reached Paldar and try to lose the tail, but if he walked off, Parmak would think it was about their argument. He could not explain that he was being followed. After considering it for a moment, he came to the conclusion that if the Order had been following him for an entire octad, they had already seen him enter Parmak’s house. Besides, there was no reason for them to think he was doing anything illegal. They were just two acquaintances, going to the museum and then having dinner. 

All the way to Paldar, Garak could sense Parmak’s annoyance. When they reached his front-door, Garak braced himself. He expected that the argument would start as soon as the door closed behind them. Instead, Parmak turned to face him. He was frowning, but his gaze was open.

‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘You’re forgiven,’ Garak said. Parmak smiled a little. ‘I don’t care that you don’t like that fresco.’ 

‘It’s terrible.’ 

‘Well, you have no taste in art,’ Garak said, but then turned serious. ‘It’s not about that. What I care about is that you are careless. You can’t say something like that with people listening. You shouldn’t touch me in public. Particularly not when you look the way you do.’ 

‘Elim, I really don’t need a lecture about my hair,’ Parmak said. Garak shrugged and walked into the living room. Parmak followed him. ‘Elim.’ 

‘What?’ 

Parmak bit his lip. 

‘Where has all this come from all of a sudden?’ he asked. ‘You’re acting… well, a little paranoid.’ 

Garak sighed. He knew exactly where it came from. That skimmer felt like it was just out of his vision now. 

‘I’m sorry. I think it’s just… The rumours you hear.’ 

Parmak smiled, amused but touched. 

‘The Obsidian Order doesn’t come after people for saying they don’t like a painting, Elim.’ 

Garak laughed. Parmak laughed with him, or so he thought. He could not know that Garak was laughing at the absurdity of saying that to an operative of the Order. 

When the laughter died down, Garak took his hand.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s make dinner.’ 

They cooked together, more at ease with one another than before. Nevertheless, Garak still felt shaken. Perhaps Parmak’s comment about the fresco was just an opinion of art. He supposed there was a certain lack of subtlety in the style – his love for it was more based on the subject-matter than the rendering – but the opinion had been disquieting nevertheless. 

He did not want to think about it anymore. He did his best to push it aside. Some of his previous good mood came back as they sat down to eat. They sat up late discussing the merits of Mosar’s lyric poetry and his contemporaries’. When they withdrew to the bedroom, they put on a recording of Corak’s fifth symphony. An hour later, they lay nose to nose, happy and sleepy in the coital afterglow. Garak combed his fingers through Parmak’s hair. 

‘Did you mean it?’

Parmak, who looked about to fall asleep, made a grumbling sound.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t about that I said Rogarat was overrated, is it?’ 

Garak smiled.

‘At the museum. You said you’d tell me anything. Did you mean it?’ 

Parmak forced his eyes open.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Anything.’ 

Garak put his forehead against Parmak’s. 

‘You shouldn’t promise such things.’ 

‘And still I do,’ Parmak said and pressed a kiss on his lips. ‘Now, please, let’s sleep.’ 

‘Good night, Kelas.’ 

Parmak murmured something, already half-asleep. Garak turned, finding a more comfortable position. Little by little he relaxed until he felt himself sink, sink, and then was gone.

***

He was pulled out of sleep without warning. Loud banging had woken him up so suddenly that it made him sit up. Beside him, Parmak was scrambling for his glasses. The banging came again – the unmistakable sound of a fist against the front door.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. _They’re coming for me,_ he thought. _This is it._

Then came the cry, carrying from downstairs: 

‘ _Police_!’ 

Garak drew a fast, shallow breath. It wasn’t the Order. They would never shout, much less shout that. This was a police raid. 

‘ _Doctor Parmak! Open this door!_ ’

‘Elim!’ Parmak was out of bed and pulling on his dressing-gown. ‘Don’t just sit there.’ 

Garak realised he had frozen. He was naked in another man’s bed. There was only one staircase, and they would not make it out the back door in time. Even if they did, there was nowhere to go. They were trapped here.

Losing patience, Parmak took him by the arm and pulled him out of bed, towards the wardrobe. 

‘You can’t be serious…’

He did not heed him. Letting go, he opened the wardrobe doors, pushed the clothes aside and placed his hands against the inner wall. The banging from downstairs grew louder. Someone kicked at the front door. 

‘Kelas, what in the seven hells are you doing?’

Parmak’s fingers found whatever he was looking for. A panel in the wall swung open, revealing an opening just large enough for a grown man. 

‘Come on,’ Parmak said. He took Garak’s clothes and bag and threw them into the compartment. Then he turned to Garak. From downstairs came the crash of the front door being broken down. 

Not giving himself time to think, Garak ducked inside. The panel closed behind him, leaving him in darkness. He heard the fall of jackboots on the stairs, drawing closer. The door to the bedroom slammed open. The crash made him flatten himself against the wall. He had closed his eyes tightly. _Don’t lose control. The walls are not moving. You are not trapped._

Only he was. 

‘Gentlemen, please…’ 

Parmak’s plea for calm was interrupted by the ugly sound of a fist hitting a body hard enough to knock the air out of the lungs. Things hit the floor in a series of thuds, pings and crashes.

‘Been entertaining recently, Doctor?’ someone, no doubt the captain, said. 

‘I don’t know what you mea- _oof_.’ 

Garak bit the inside of his cheek, hard. That was not a punch but a kick. His legs were shaking underneath him. If he lost his balance, even a little, he might bang against the walls and they would find him. Slowly, trying not to touch the walls both to avoid making any noise but also so he would not know where they were, he lowered himself down. His shoulder touched the outer wall – the space was barely wide enough for him to turn in. He felt his breathing grow short and shallow. It was like he had a weight on his chest, as if the walls were pushing on it and preventing it from expanding. What would happen if they found him in here? They would be lucky to get to the station in one piece. And what if they arrested Parmak? If they found the Vulcan poetry and recognised the content, or something more obvious, more explicit… He did not know if he could get the panel open from inside. If he could not, would he die here, from thirst or cold or terror? His mind was racing, imagining Parmak in chains, and his own dead body trapped inside the wall. 

He had to break out of the spiral. He tried to find something else to concentrate on other than the thoughts and the space he was in. When he put his hands down onto the floor, they met paper. Some of if was ordinary weight and bore the tell-tale texture of ink. Garak could feel the staples through it. Another pile of paper was thicker, tied up with string.

A crash jerked him out of his thoughts. 

‘Just be careful,’ Parmak shouted. ‘I’m not hiding anything. Search if you must, but will you please…’ 

‘Don’t talk to me, you pervert!’ 

He could hear how the officer pushed Parmak, but to his relief not that he fell. The heavy footsteps seemed to grow nearer. Unable to stop himself, Garak opened his eyes. He could see nothing. Beyond the hidden door, he heard the hinges creek. A slim ray of light forced its way through the panel. Garak held his breath and put his hand over his mouth. Beyond the wall, he heard someone flicking through the hangers. The light grew brighter as the officer pushed the clothes aside, then went out as his body blocked it. The ray of light reappeared as he stepped back. In the moments before he slammed the wardrobe door shut, Garak thought he made out something on the paper – the Cardassian banner, not shown like it should, held up by the hand of the State, but with eight or nine hands raising the heavy flag-staff, carrying the weight together. That sight made the space he was in shrink faster. _It can’t be - I must be wrong,_ he thought. _Keep it together. Think it through._ By sheer force of will, he grounded himself. Then, as quietly as he could, he reached into his bag and found a torch. He make sure that the wardrobe door was still closed before he turned it on. 

The ray of light illuminated the papers. The image was on pamphlets and leaflets alike. Several hands, holding the banner aloft. Garak felt a surreal feeling descend upon him as he read the text on the leaflets. 

_The military has no right to give civilians orders._  
_Bajor is not ours to exploit.  
_ _Cardassia is not the State, but her people.  
_ _Stand Up and Resist_

There were dozens, maybe hundreds of leaflets, all with the same text. The pamphlets, each stapled by hand, bore the same image. Above it was the name of an organisation:

_C.F.D.C.  
Council for a Free and Democratic Cardassia_

The torch fell from his hand and went out. The wall pushed against his back. Iron bands were closing around his chest as the space around him narrowed. He fumbled for the torch. He did not care if they found him, he just needed some light. That was all. The metal cylinder had rolled against the pile of pamphlets. Clumsily, Garak picked it up and pressed the button. The lamp flickered to life, then died. He tried turning it on again and again, but nothing happened. He dropped it and put his head back hard. The wood behind him shook at the impact of his skull. His body was another entity, moving on its own accord, thrashing against the walls. Vaguely, he felt the pain when his limbs smacked against the walls, but it was not part of him. His mind was focused on one thing, the tightness in his chest that made it impossible to breathe. The air must be running out, or maybe he was dying. ( _Oh ancestors let me be dying - make this stop._ ) All he could hear was the blood racing through his veins. He could not see anything.

The world turned very bright. Hands grabbed him and pulled him out. Instinctively, Garak lashed out, pushing at his attacker. The hands just closed around his arms, hard. Then, penetrating through the wall of sound filling his ears: 

‘Elim, Elim, it’s me, you’re safe, please calm down!’ 

The blindness lifted. He was lying on the floor, half in the wardrobe and half in the bedroom. Parmak was kneeling at his side, his hands still around his wrists. Garak blinked, trying to adjust to the light. Parmak’s facial features started emerging from the shadows. 

‘It’s alright,’ he said. Despite his comforting tone, he could not hide the slight tremble in his voice. ‘They’re gone.’ He let go of one of his wrists and put his fingers against his temple. Garak wrapped his arms around himself, hard. Parmak withdrew. ‘Let’s get you to bed,’ he said and helped him sit up. With an arm around his waist, he heaved him up. If it had not been for him supporting him, Garak was sure he would have fallen. His legs barely carried his weight and his head was spinning. His breath felt like it was sitting in his mouth, pushing down his throat but unable to reach his lungs. As soon as they reached the bed and Garak had sat down, Parmak let go of him and hurried across the room. The floor was covered with things carelessly taken from their places and thrown aside. Garak turned to see him pick up a wooden box that lay discarded by the door. Parmak took it under his arm and came back. Garak tried to get up, but Parmak hastened over. 

‘Lie down,’ he said urgently and pushed him back. Garak did not have the strength to object. He could not even bear to open his eyes more than a little. The lights were far too bright, the mess around them far too distressing. Parmak brushed Garak’s hair out of his face. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Are you in pain?’

Garak tried to answer, but the words emerged from his mouth as little more than an ugly croak. He put his hand on his chest, grabbing at the invisible weight on it. Parmak let go of him and opened the box. Glass, metal and circuitry fell out. He swore. Garak recognised a piece of the metal as the casing of a scanner. He reached out and touched Parmak’s arm, not strong enough to grasp it. Parmak took his hand and kissed it. 

‘It’s alright,’ he whispered, but let go of him almost at once. He pushed the pieces of the smashed scanner under the bed with his slippered foot and picked an old-fashioned listening-horn from the box instead. He turned it in his hands, searching for cracks with his eyes and fingers. Then he got to his feet. 

‘Kelas,’ Garak said, his voice grating against his throat. Parmak touched his hair.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he assured him. ‘Try not to talk.’ He leaned down and put his ear against the horn to listen to Garak’s heart. In the ensuing silence, Garak heard only Parmak’s trembling breath. That evening last octad when he had examined him, he had been a calming presence. Now, as he moved the listening-horn and pressed it hard against Garak’s chest again, there was something frantic about his actions, like he was afraid of what he might hear. Again, Garak tried to speak, wanting to tell him that this was how he got if he was in a small space for too long, but again Parmak hushed him. He listened at different points, over his heart and on his sides and on either side of his _chula_. Every time he lifted the horn, Garak felt the round indentation it left. After what seemed like an age, Parmak straightened up. Gently he put his arm under Garak’s shoulders and helped him sit.

‘Deep breaths,’ he said, sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed the horn against his back. Garak tried to breathe slowly, but it was difficult. Parmak’s hand settled on his shoulder, comforting and steadying him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his own breaths, counting each one. He had reached ten when Parmak finally sat up straight and put the horn aside. He guided him back down and pulled the thermal blanket up to his chin. 

‘You’re alright,’ he whispered, barely hiding his own relief. ‘You’re fine.’ He tried to smile, but instead, his face strained with a sob. Garak managed to raise his hand and wipe a tear from his cheek. Parmak took his hand in his and kissed it forcefully. Then he leaned down and kissed him on the lips. ‘You scared me.’ 

Garak struggled to find the words. 

‘No need,’ he said. ’Just…’ The air stuck in his throat. ‘Not good with enclosed spaces.’ 

‘You should have told me,’ Parmak said. ‘I’d never have…’ 

Garak shook his head. 

‘It had to be done.’ The image of the small space returned in his mind’s eye. As if they were what trapped him, Garak pushed the blankets off himself. Parmak drew them over him again. 

‘There, it’s alright. Shh.’ 

He surrendered, letting himself concentrate on his touch. When he tried to sit up, Parmak pushed him back gently.

‘Just rest.’

Again, Garak reached out and touched his face. This time, he traced the damage done. Parmak’s lip had burst and a cut was just visible at his hairline. 

‘You have blood in your hair.’ Some of it was bright red, clinging to the white hair. Furthest away from the wound, it had started drying. 

‘It’s not too bad.’ 

‘Why were they here?’ Garak asked. Parmak smiled gently.

‘Don’t worry about that.’ 

But how could he not worry? His lover was a traitor. He sobbed suddenly. Parmak stroked his hair. 

‘Shh, it’s all fine. It’s over,’ he whispered and lay down beside him. ‘We’re safe. Just try to sleep.’ 

Garak moved closer to him. Parmak put his arms around him, leaning his cheek against his shoulder. Little by little, Garak felt the exhaustion winning over the panic. Sleep crept closer. As he dropped off, he could still sense Parmak awake, watching him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: sexual content, anxiety, mentions of homophobia.

Garak woke from his fitful sleep to find himself alone. From the kitchen, he could hear Parmak moving around. He lay and listened for a while, trying to discern if he was making breakfast or tidying up. The floor in the bedroom was still covered with things. Socks had been taken from the drawers, papers had been scattered from their files, framed pictures had been unceremoniously thrown to the floor. 

Slowly, Garak sat up and looked for his clothes. After several minutes, he spotted his trouser-leg sticking out of the wardrobe. He opened the door and, bracing himself, reached into the space where he had been trapped. Even if he only put his arm into it, he still felt the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He collected his clothes and bag and took the torch. The glass had cracked – no wonder it had stopped working. 

The tied-up batch of leaflets from last night caught his eye. _Stand Up and Resist_ , they proclaimed. Garak felt that familiar pressure on his chest. He got out of the wardrobe as fast as he could. Letting the clothes fall to the floor, he made it back to the bed and put his head in his hands. This was not just claustrophobia. It was the sight of the leaflets that had set this off. 

It was all falling into place now, faster than his anxious brain could process. He had spent over an octad thinking the Order was watching him, trying to make him nervous by letting him spot them. That had been giving the person conducting the surveillance too much credit. The operatives who investigated the Order’s own were the most highly trained in the whole organisation. Whoever Garak had spotted was not that. No, he was not the one being watched. They were keeping an eye on someone who did not know how to spot a tail. He thought about when he had noticed the skimmer. The first time had been the morning after Parmak had come looking for him. The second time was at the museum, already parked there when he arrived. Every time he had seen it, Parmak had been nearby. 

Perhaps he should have realised this side of him before. There were signs – Parmak’s sympathy for the Bajoran man at the bar, his disregard for general morality, his snide remarks about the Cardassia mural. Garak had assumed there was no more to it than that. It was just another part of his eccentricity, like his long hair. He should have known better. That was not how things worked. Should he have asked? he wondered. Parmak had said he would tell him anything he wanted to know. He did want to know, he just didn’t want to ask him. 

But none of that explained the raid last night. The Order did not delegate that kind of thing to the constabulary. There was some other reason for that. 

Overcoming the panic in some way, he started pulling on his clothes. He was doing up his jacket when he heard movement in the doorway. 

‘What are you doing?’ Parmak asked. 

Garak did not look over at him, but concentrated on his jacket. 

‘I need to get to work.’ 

‘That’s out of the question. You’re not well.’ 

‘I’m fine,’ Garak said. He did not feel fine, but he had to go in. He needed access to the Order databases. Parmak crossed to him. 

‘Elim. Please. You had a nasty shock last night. You’re not in any state to work.’ 

Garak fiddled with the fastenings of his jacket, not meeting his gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bright bruises on Parmak’s face. The thought of the Order files pushed at him. Giving in, he sat down on the bed. Parmak sat down beside him. They did not speak or touch, only sat, side by side. _Cardassia is not the State, but her people,_ Garak thought. _Stand Up and Resist._ Owning even one leaflet with those words was criminal. The number of them in that hidden compartment made him think Parmak was planning to distribute them. That was a serious crime. 

Yet when Parmak reached out and took his hand, Garak did not pull away. Instead, he pressed his hand. When Parmak leaned forward, it was Garak who closed the distance between them and brushed their _chufar_ together. Still, those words – _Stand Up and Resist_ – kept ringing in his ears. 

Realising he was close to crying, he pulled away. He hunched over and covered his face. Parmak placed a tender hand on his neck. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I had no idea you were claustrophobic…’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Garak said and wiped the tears away. ‘If you hadn’t done that, we’d be in front of the archon on charges of indecency.’ 

Parmak removed his hand. 

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, though he sounded unconvinced. Garak sat a little straighter. 

‘Kelas, what were they looking for?’ 

Parmak frowned, not following.

‘The police doesn’t just raid someone’s house,’ Garak said. ‘They need some reason to make it worthwhile…’ 

Parmak looked away. It took him a few moments to centre himself enough to speak. 

‘It was a long time ago. I was nineteen years old – a student. I was visiting my family for a while and…’ He interlaced his fingers and rubbed his palms together, as if to distract himself from the embarrassment. ‘I felt very lonely. So, one night, I went out to find company. I did, and… five minutes in there was a police raid.’ 

Garak had guessed as much. 

‘What happened?’ 

‘I was arrested. Beaten. I thought my life was over. I was certain that the university would send me down. There was no way, I thought, that they’d ever let me study medicine if I had been convicted of sexual deviancy. So even if I somehow survived imprisonment, I would have nothing left.’ Parmak took a deep breath, steadying himself. ‘I was taken to court and…’ He swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘It turned out they had commuted the sentence to probation. I had to report to the archon once a month for a year, but then it was, supposedly, struck from my record.’ 

Garak frowned. That was unusual.

‘Why do you think the archon did that?’ 

‘Her explanation was that I was a bright young man who had been seduced by the degeneracy of university life in the Union Capital. The real reason is that my sister bribed her.’ 

Garak took his hand. He felt very grateful to this sister of Parmak’s he had never met. Also, he thought of his suspicion that Tain had smoothed over some things in the past. Those acts were based on cold calculation, not affection. 

‘If it was struck from your record, how come the police here knows about it?’ Garak asked. 

Parmak sighed. 

‘I don’t know. Some bureaucratic blunder. Corruption. Perhaps it was never blotted out. Perhaps it was… I don’t know the terminology. Undone, somehow. Whatever happened, a few years ago the Union Capital constabulary found out about it. They’ve harassed me a few times. Questioned me twice. This is the first time they’ve…’

He looked around the room, where his possessions lay scattered and broken. Garak pressed his hand. 

‘How bad is it?’ he asked. Parmak sighed. 

‘The front door is smashed up. The comm unit won’t turn on. My scanners are all broken. Most of it is just things out of place.’ He paused. ‘I wonder if the neighbours heard.’ 

Garak feared it was all too likely. Even if they did not know why the police had broken down the door and searched the house in the middle of the night, it was bound to make them suspicious of him. The brave mask Parmak had maintained until now broke and revealed a look of distress. He bit his lip and swallowed, but the tears came anyway. Garak felt powerless watching him cry like that. He hugged him, both to comfort him and to not have to see his face. Parmak wept against his shoulder. After a while, he pulled away, took his glasses off and wiped his eyes on his dressing-gown sleeve. 

‘If you need help replacing anything…’ 

Parmak interrupted him. There was an angry edge in his voice. 

‘It’s not about the things. They came into my house. They violated my home. They made me…’ He only managed to look at him for a moment before he turned away, biting back tears. Garak hoped he would not apologise again. ‘I thought you were going to die.’ 

‘Whyever would I do that?’ Garak asked and wrapped an arm around him. Parmak put his head in his hand. 

‘When I got you out, you… you could barely breathe. I thought your heart was giving out…’ 

Garak held him closer. 

‘Well, I’m alive,’ he said. ‘It takes rather more to get rid of me than that.’ 

Parmak managed a smile. It was a relief that he had stopped crying, but seeing him like that had reminded Garak that, however shaken he felt after last night, Parmak had every reason to feel worse. He had seen the police officers cause this devastation and been the one to be beaten. The bruises ran down one side of his face, from his eye-ridge and all over his cheek. On one side of his iris, the white of his eye was blood-red.

‘Have you done something about those?’ Garak asked, reaching out to indicate his face. Even if he did not make contact, Parmak pulled back a little, as if afraid he might brush against them. 

‘No.’ He stood up and waved to him to follow him. ‘Put your shoes on. I don’t want you cutting your feet.’ 

Garak located his shoes, stepped into them and followed Parmak. The rest of the house seemed to be in as bad a shape as the bedroom. 

‘What about the front-door?’ 

‘It’ll need replacing,’ Parmak said. ‘I managed to put in place and pushed some chest of drawers against it, just to keep it there, but it’s all splintered.’ 

Garak could imagine clearly how he, this thin intellectual with a bruised face, pushed the heavy furniture to barricade the broken door while he himself lay asleep upstairs. He hated the thought of it. 

Not noticing his train of thought, Parmak led him to the study. Carefully, he knelt on the floor and opened his medkit. 

‘Look.’ 

The devices inside were broken, their glass panels cracked. Garak crouched to get a better look. 

‘I thought those things were built to be sturdy.’ It was not a surprise to him that his torch had broken when dropped, but he had expected medical scanners to survive being thrown to the floor. 

‘Yes,’ Parmak said bitterly, ‘but not when a grown man stomps on it.’ 

He picked up the remnants of a dermal regenerator. The way it had dented looked like a boot had been brought down on it, hard. Parmak opened another compartment of the kit. As soon as he did, a colourless liquid seeped out. The compartment’s ampoule-shaped indentations only held shards of glass. 

‘This was hundreds of _lek_ worth of medicine,’ he said. ‘Things that could have saved dozens of lives. I just…’ He exhaled sharply. ‘What’s the point? If they wanted to punish me, that’s one thing, but…’ He trailed off again. Garak edged closer and put his arm around him. Parmak relaxed a little from the contact and put his head against his shoulder. After a while, he straightened up and got to his feet. Taking the hand he was offered, Garak got up too. 

‘I hope _you’re_ not going to work today,’ he said. Parmak shook his head. 

‘I can’t see patients looking like this.’ 

Garak could not disagree.

‘Shouldn’t you get someone to look at your eye?’ It looked alarming.

‘I’ve looked at it myself,’ Parmak said. ‘It’s not dangerous. Looks much worse than it is.’ 

‘I suppose that’s something.’ 

Parmak took his hand. 

‘Let’s have breakfast. They didn’t pour out the fish-juice, at least.’

‘Small favours,’ Garak muttered, and let himself be led to the kitchen.

***

They spent the day cleaning the house. Working from room to room, they identified what could be mended, threw out what could not, and put things back in place. Garak mended rips in curtains and cushions and searched the floor for items too small for Parmak’s bad eyes. He managed to make the comm-unit work, although he could not get the visual feed to function properly. They boarded up the front-door together.

Slowly, the place started looking more familiar, but it was sparser than before. Many times when they found something that had broken – a Bajoran mandolin, a framed painting, a vase – a look of intense pain would pass over Parmak’s face. Garak kept an eye on him, worried about the impact this might have on him on top of the injuries. He was aware that Parmak was watching him in much the same way. He wished he could tell him not to worry – it was a silly, irrational psychological disorder and nothing worse than that – but he knew Parmak would not listen. He was aware that they were both affected, moving slower, touching more, barely speaking. 

It was almost evening when Parmak put down his broom and said: 

‘I’m going to run a bath.’ 

Garak was glad when he came back and took him by the hand. They bathed together, first sitting on either side of the tub with their feet together, then on the same side, Parmak’s back resting against Garak’s chest. Parmak’s hair spread across the water’s surface, fanning out when Garak ran his hand close to it. Carefully, he leaned down and kissed the smoother scales under his jaw. 

‘That tickles,’ Parmak said, but he could hear him smiling. Garak pressed a line of kisses down his neck. When he reached his clavicle, he stopped. 

‘Kelas?’ 

‘Mm?’ 

‘I think you should go away for a while. Somewhere out of the capital.’ 

Parmak sighed. 

‘I think you’re right.’ He started rubbing his claws with his other hand, even if they were already perfectly clean. ‘It’s just that I have patients who rely on me. If I go…’ 

‘There are other doctors,’ Garak said. 

Parmak let his hands fall into the water again.

‘Of course there are,’ he said. ‘But these are people who trust me to help them.’ 

‘You’re no good to them dead.’ It was blunt, but they both knew it was not an exaggeration. If someone heard about the raid, put things together, and rumours started going around… Garak put his arms around Parmak. He leaned back against him. 

‘I can find somewhere for you to go.’ There were plenty of possible places in the countryside, through contacts, the Order and Tain. He might even be able to get him off-world. For a moment, he imagined them going together, somewhere with no one else. 

‘No,’ Parmak said. ‘I think it’s better if you… didn’t get involved.’ 

He was right, of course. 

‘Where can you go?’ Garak asked. 

‘I’ll go visit my sister,’ Parmak said. ‘That won’t look suspicious.’ 

‘Where does she live?’ 

‘Lakarian City.’ 

‘Good.’ 

Parmak sunk a little lower. The hair that had stuck to his back let go of his skin and floated in the water. 

‘Go tomorrow,’ Garak said. ‘First thing.’ 

Parmak nodded, but did not say anything. Garak leaned down and kissed his temple. 

‘I’ll miss you terribly,’ Parmak whispered. 

Garak pulled back. It took a moment to regain control over himself. 

‘And I you.’ 

Parmak tipped his head back and looked at him. 

‘I’ll be sad to go.’ 

‘You’ll come back,’ Garak said. ‘Soon.’ 

He hugged him. They stayed in the bath until the water started losing its heat. As they got ready for bed, they did not speak. Unease hung in the air. Garak got into bed as Parmak called his sister from the study. He could hear his voice through the walls, but not his words. When he came into the bedroom, Garak sat up. 

‘What did she say?’ 

Parmak mustered a smile. 

‘She’ll be delighted to have me.’ 

Garak breathed a sigh of relief. 

‘Did you tell her what happened?’ 

‘Yes,’ Parmak said as he got under the covers. 

‘Was she the one who dealt with the archon?’ 

He nodded. 

‘She’s always been very understanding.’ 

‘I’m glad.’ 

They lay down. Parmak turned onto his side, getting ready to sleep. His hair fell into the space between their bodies. It struck Garak with sudden force that from tomorrow morning, he would be alone. They had said that he would come back soon, but when “soon” was, he did not know. Was this the last time he would sleep beside him for an octad – two – more? He wanted to make the most of it. 

‘Kelas?’ 

Parmak turned to face him. Moving carefully, avoiding his bruises, Garak kissed him. He gasped and kissed back, hard. How could something so urgent still feel so tender? Garak stroked his neck-ridge with one hand. With the other, he touched his face. Sensing his intentions, Parmak took his fingers in his mouth. The sight of it was at once immodest and beautiful. Garak felt the pressure that anticipated eversion build. Pushing Parmak’s nightshirt up to his ribs, he withdrew his fingers and instead dipped them into his _ajan_. It tightened around them as Parmak everted. He put his fist over his mouth to try to stifle the groans. Garak pushed deeper and found the sensitive gland furthest in. Parmak twitched, arching against his hand. 

The next moment, he pulled away instead. 

‘No. Stop.’ 

Garak removed his fingers. Parmak sat up and tugged his nightshirt down over his retracting genitals.

‘Did I hurt you?’ Garak asked. His claws were longer than Parmak’s, after all, and all it took was a slightly wrong angle for them to catch. 

Parmak shook his head, trembling. 

‘No. It’s not that.’ He met his eye. ‘What if they come back?’ 

Garak felt startled, then angry. Had the Constabulary not caused enough damage for one day? They had broken down Parmak’s door, smashed his possessions and beaten him bloody, and now they had taken this moment from him. 

‘I don’t think it’s likely,’ he said, truthfully. He knew the mind of police officers well enough to be sure that they did not have the sophistication to take advantage of their target’s distress. Having caused this mayhem last night, they had lost interest for at least a month. Parmak’s shoulders slumped.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I wish I could…’ 

Garak shook his head. 

‘Don’t apologise, my dear.’ He reached out his hand and, to his relief, Parmak took it. ‘They’re not coming back. People like that don’t have the attention span.’ 

Parmak relaxed a little. 

‘I hope you’re right.’ 

Garak lay back and stretched out his arm. Parmak lay down close to him and rested his head on his chest. They relaxed against each other, but it took a long time before they slept. Garak sensed how Parmak listened to sounds from the outside, ready to jump into action at the first sign of trouble.

***

The next morning when Parmak closed his suitcase and fetched his coat, Garak regretted his lover’s good sense. An illogical, dangerous part of his mind wanted to throw caution to the wind and go with him to Lakarian City or, better yet, take him somewhere far from relatives and duties. He imagined walking with him through nature, stopping to tell him about the flowers. They might read aloud to one another and discuss what they had read that day. They would fuck without having to drown out the sounds with music.

He pulled himself out of the fantasy. At least for now, that was impossible. He took the coat from Parmak and helped him into it, pausing to make sure his hair was properly tucked into the collar. 

‘You should leave before me,’ Parmak said, not looking at him. 

‘Yes.’ It was a small grace that the front-door was boarded up, as that meant they had to go out the back-door, which was harder to surveil. ‘How are you getting there?’ 

Parmak turned around. 

‘By skimmer is easiest.’ 

Garak felt a stab of panic. If the Order wanted to arrest Parmak, right now would be their best option. He was already shaken and on edge after the police raid, and the raid itself could be used as a first pretext before charges of sedition were levelled. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘Take the tram. Go to your surgery. Then call a skimmer from there.’ 

Parmak looked like he was about to argue, but the look disappeared when he met Garak’s eye. 

‘I’ll do that.’ 

Garak wanted to thank him, but it would sound odd. Instead, he took his hands. 

‘We should be careful what we put in writing.’ 

‘Yes.’ Parmak squeezed his hands. ‘I suppose we should not talk much.’ 

‘It’s safest not to.’ 

Parmak’s delicate face strained suddenly with sadness. 

‘Kelas,’ Garak whispered. ‘My dearest love, this is not goodbye.’ 

‘I know,’ Parmak said. ‘It just feels… final.’ 

‘It’s _not_ ,’ Garak intoned. ‘It’s only for an octad or so.’ 

Parmak nodded, trying to gain control over himself again. 

‘I love you,’ he said. 

Garak felt a lump lodge in his throat. 

‘I love you too.’ 

He wished he didn’t. It would be so easy if he could just remind himself that Kelas Parmak should be punished for his betrayal and feel that that was right. Instead, he wanted to hold him close and never let go. It seemed impossible to imagine that only three months ago, they had not met. What had it been like without him? A sequence of uninspiring trysts, lonely hours of reading, and most of all, his duty to the State. And now? What was his life? He looked into Parmak’s eyes and saw his own feelings reflected back. It was not right that anyone could feel like that towards him, so openly and unashamed, and yet he did not care. All he cared about was Parmak. 

He pulled him close. They touched their _chufar_ together and pressed lips against lips. Then they touched palms and whispered goodbye. Halfway down the path running from the back-door, Garak looked over his shoulder. Parmak was at the window, watching him. When he saw him turn, he waved. Garak smiled, but did not wave back. Safest not to. He turned away again and hurried on. 

He stopped home just to change into a new suit, then called a skimmer to take him to the compound. Today he had no patience for the tram. In fact, he had little patience for anything. He even considered not going by his office first, but it was impossible not to. He only stayed long enough to leave his bag and check that none of the reports left on his desk needed his immediate attention. Taking the access rods he would need, he left his office. He gathered his courage and headed towards the lift. 

Garak had hoped to not encounter anyone, but when the doors opened, he found himself face to face with Pythas Lok. Having been spotted, he could not turn and go. Biting the inside of his cheek, he stepped inside. 

‘Lok.’ 

‘Garak,’ Lok said pleasantly. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ 

‘I’ve been busy.’ 

‘How’s the Cardassia IV situation?’ 

‘Progressing as expected.’ 

‘Good.’ 

Out of the corner of his eye, Garak saw Lok watching him. 

‘Are you under the weather?’ he asked. ‘You looked exhausted.’ 

‘I’ve been busy.’ 

Lok half-snorted, half-laughed. 

‘You need to learn some more lines, my friend.’ 

The lift stopped. Lok slapped Garak on the shoulder and left. When the doors closed, Garak took a moment to collect himself, then took out his access rods, inserted the correct ones and entered his code. The lift jerked into motion. He closed his eyes hard, concentrating on the feeling of a controlled fall. It was distracting, but not quite enough. When the doors opened and he stepped out, he had stop and compose himself. 

The corridor he had stepped into sprawled through the bedrock under the Order compound. Like the rest of the buildings, there were no maps or arrows to give directions. He followed the corridor to the right until it ended in a door. The mechanism on the doorframe activated when he stepped closer. He inserted another set of access rods. A lamp beside the console lit up. He pressed his hand to the panel, and a second lamp turned on. Finally, he let out a long breath at the sensor. The last light flicked on, and the door opened. 

The room on the other side was small, not much wider than the corridor outside. A man at the desk looked up. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘Elim Garak, designation twenty-six five ten eight, for the central archive.’ 

The clerk wrote down what he had said. 

‘Face the sensor over there,’ he told him.‘State your name and designation again.’ 

Garak turned ninety degrees to his left.

‘Elim Garak. Twenty-six five ten eight.’ 

The sensor blinked, and a light moved over him. There was a moment’s tense silence before the clerk, suddenly much friendlier, said: 

‘Ah, here we are. All in order.’ He handed Garak a signed authorisation form. ‘You can go through.’ 

The wall opened. 

‘Thank you,’ Garak said and stepped into the transporter room. It was manned by three engineers, all of whom studied and signed the form Garak brought them. They gave him a copy and, finally, allowed him to step onto the transporter pad. 

There was an odd sense of freedom in dematerialisation. Garak knew some people reacted to it much like he did to enclosed spaces, but he had never seen it as something to fear. Perhaps that was because it was the exact opposite of what frightened him the most. While transporters were often located in cramped rooms, during the moments between de- and rematerialisation, there was nothing around him. In some ways, he did not even exist. It was a liberating feeling. 

He found himself on another transporter pad in a room with three other engineers. He went through the same procedures on this end. The engineers signed to verify that they had witnessed him materialising. Biometric information, voice imprints and DNA were compared before he was let through the next set of doors. Finally, he presented a third set of data-rods and the authorisation form from the clerk before he was allowed to exit the bureaucratic limbo. The last door was unlocked for him and he entered the Order’s central archives. 

Garak had not been here for over fifteen years. However impressive the place was, he tended to avoid it, as he had spent six dull months here as a data processor early on in his career. Even now, being here was a disorienting experience. It felt rather like the children’s game when you were blindfolded and spun around, making it impossible to tell which way you were facing. Garak was only certain of two things about his current whereabouts: he was still on Cardassia Prime, and he was underground. The location of the central archives was a closely guarded secret. Not even the engineers who operated the transporters knew the entire sequence of coordinates, only having a few each that they entered. Garak was not even certain Tain himself knew for sure. 

The elderly man at the desk straight ahead was studying an index card through a magnifying glass. It took several seconds before he noticed Garak’s presence and looked up. 

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ 

‘I am here to access a file.’ 

‘Evidently,’ the little man said, but shuffled over to the computer console. ‘What is it?’

‘Parmak, Kelas.’ 

The man tapped the console slowly, then squinted at the read-out. 

‘Can you be more specific? There are quite a few people by that name.’ 

‘The one I am after is a medical doctor, and a resident of Paldar in the Union Capital.’ 

The archivist added the information. The light of the screen changed as it worked. 

‘Aha!’ he said triumphantly. ‘There we have it. Parmak, Kelas, identification number four-three-two, seven-double-four oh, five nine one.’ He turned back to Garak. ‘Your papers, please, sir.’ 

Garak handed them over. This was his one reservation about this. His name would be on the list of people who had accessed the file. On the other hand, it would have been more obvious if he had looked at it in his office. There, everything was logged. At least here, his name would only be on the file. There was no list of items accessed by any one operative. 

The archivist, who had become far more cheerful when he saw Garak’s access-rods and realised who he was, led him into a private reading-room. Garak paced as he waited for the files. Some twenty minutes later, the old man was back pushing a trolly with several boxes. 

‘Not too big, this one,’ he said and heaved one of the boxes onto the table. ‘This is the one to start with.’ 

Garak murmured thank you, but did not spare him a look. As soon as the archivist had let go of the box, he had grabbed it and was opening it. From far away, he was aware of the man leaving the room, clucking to himself, but it barely registered. The very first item in the archive box was a cream-coloured folding-file with the name “Parmak, Kelas” written in the corner. Garak put it down in front of him and opened it. 

He knew to expect it, but seeing that familiar face in this file still shook him. The photographs were of the type taken by the Bureau of Identification every third year. One showed Parmak from the front, the other in profile. In both, he was expressionless, and his eyes were unfocused without the glasses. They were clipped to notes bearing his name.

> Parmak, Kelas (432 7440 591)
> 
> Threat level: Low
> 
> Known association: Council for a Free and Democratic Cardassia
> 
> Born: 9 Geltar, Union year 691, Lakarian City, Cardassia Prime

Here in this file, compiled by one of his colleagues, were things about his lover Garak had never learned. Until now, he had not known quite how old he was - he had thought he was younger, but in fact he was two years Garak’s senior. Other things he had a vague sense of, but made a different impression when written down.

> Occupation: Physician (Central University, Union year 709-717)
> 
> General practice, 59 Legate Temar Street, Paldar
> 
> Associate fellow in internal medicine, Akleen Hospital, Paldar
> 
> Medical volunteer, Desar Medical Centre, North Torr

Garak wondered how Parmak had any spare time with that many work commitments. How did he find the time to volunteer when he spent as much time with Garak as he did?

Then there were the things that chilled him to see presented like this. When preliminary biographical information and a physical description had been given, a profile followed. Garak wondered who had written it. Which operative of the Order had followed Parmak so closely to know these things? He felt jealous that some uninterested colleague of his had known Parmak for longer than he had. It was clear from the file that Parmak had never been brought in for questioning, and that considered, the profile was remarkably correct. It described his habits in detail, everything from the tram he took to work to the way he took his tea. 

The insights into his mind were fewer, but there was nothing that struck him as inaccurate. It painted him as disciplined and dedicated to his principles, but not those of the State. Garak thought the person who wrote this might even admire Parmak’s commitment to his goals, however wrong they were. Nevertheless, there was an awareness in the text of just how nefarious these actions were. The file said, and Garak agreed, that Parmak had no interest in direct violent upheaval. However, his type of sedition was almost worse. Even if destroyed infrastructure and assassinations caused huge problems, they could often be dealt with easily. Often it was just a case of finding the person holding the disruptor. Even more large-scale attacks, like those seen on Bajor, could be countered with violence. The poison that the Council of a Free and Democratic Cardassia spread was far more damaging than that. Slow-acting and debilitating, it turned good citizens who only had the bad luck to be susceptible into threats. Even if they found those guilty, burned their writings and shattered their networks, their ideas were still out there. The writers might all the dead or deported, but leaflets would still be lying under tram-seats or inside library-books, pamphlets would still be hidden in piles of magazines and newspapers. There was no way to suck the poison out of the wound they had inflicted. 

Garak felt himself catapulted back into his body. This was Kelas he was reading about. His kind, tender Kelas. How could anything he did be poisonous? And yet here it was. Boxes upon boxes of evidence. He took one box marked “surveillance reports” and found a file for this year.

> 14 Targen - left home at 06.50. Arrived at practice 7.20, left 19.15. Took normal route home, arrived 19.40. No suspicious behaviour.
> 
> 15 Targen - usual routine, with exception of evening. Left home at 21.30. Took tram-line 7 to Ghesar Street. Seen entering 19 Ghesar Street around the same time as a number of other members of the CFDC: Menar, Thelan, Prenak, Ozar, Kaimat. Left 23.30. Seen in conversation with Thelan. Walked home. 

That name was familiar, but it took a moment for Garak to place it. Thelan had been the man Parmak had spoken to about the card-game. How had he not seen that there was something going on then? Parmak was not a gambler, and no one, not even the most obsessive card-player, would take minutes at such an event. If someone made notes, they would never be called “minutes”.

He continued reading.

> 16 Targen - usual morning routine. Left practice at 16.40. Arrived at Museum of Cardassian Art 17.00. Left together with unidentified male person 19.40. Together with said male person took tram-line 4 to Imperial Street, East Torr. Entered 39 Imperial Street. Not seen leaving. 

Garak felt a bout of dizziness wish over him. _He_ lived on 39 Imperial Street. The Order knew this – as with any great thing in his life, the decision of where to live had gone through several levels of Order bureaucracy. He got to his feet and paced the length of the room. Then he picked up the file and continued reading as he walked. He went back to the date he and Parmak had first met and read through every entry until the last logged report from last octad. There were plenty of mentions of Imperial Street and of an “unidentified male person”, sometimes briefly described (“40s-50s, stocky build, expensive suit”), but his name never appeared. Had the people conducting the surveillance not recognised him, or had they been told to exclude his name? If they had been asked to emend their reports, the original one was in the hands of internal investigations.

And if they knew it was him, had they inferred what their connection was? He found the first file again and looked through it. On a page he must have missed he found a paragraph:

> Subject is a known sexual deviant. Convicted in 711, Lakarian City, sentence commuted to probation. He frequents establishments well-known for their invert customers. Coordination with the Union Capital Constabulary may be necessary to prevent clashes with any current vice investigations.

Garak sat down heavily and tried to breathe. Of course they knew. He felt a long line of ifs presenting itself: _if_ no one had recognised him, _if_ they had not taken pictures, _if_ no one who would recognise him saw those pictures, _if_ it did not reach anyone who might make the leap that they were lovers… If so, they were safe.

He could not lose it here, with this material laid out in front of him. He might as well sign a confession. He forced himself to put the files back in their boxes and call the archivist. How he managed to keep his voice level and his face schooled in front of him, Garak did not know. When he went through the security protocols again, neither the clerks not the transporter engineers on either side seemed to notice his trepidation. It was not until he reached the corridors under the Union Capital and the lift that would carry him up to the compound that it hit him. It was like he could feel the physical impact of the thoughts. He stopped, steadied himself against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose. Around him, the corridor seemed to grow darker and narrower. 

For three months, he had been breaking the law, and Parmak had been his accomplice. Now, he was committing a new crime. Ever since he saw those pamphlets in Parmak’s wardrobe and had not reported them, he had become guilty of aiding sedition. He should not be looking for confirmation or explanations. He should turn him in. He should…

But he couldn’t. And if he could not, he had betrayed Cardassia. He would be complicit in all of Parmak’s crimes. He felt like his brain was a computer that had been set a task that could not be solved. It tried and tried, but came nowhere nearer a solution. The circuits were threatening to fuse. 

Garak reached out blindly and found the wall. The concrete was cold under his hand, and there was a soft breeze. Feeling his way forward, he moved towards its source. The difference in temperature was a shock when he stepped under the vent. Still he pushed his body against the wall where it was coldest. Little by little, the chill worked its way under his skin, into his bones. His heartbeat was slowing down. His senses grew less sharp. When he exhaled, he found he could breathe freely again. The thoughts were all still there, but at least the physiological effects of the cold dulled the symptoms of panic. 

He had to find a way to control himself. As he made his way to the lift, he started trying to discipline his mind. He would erect a wall between the things he had learned and his thoughts about Parmak. If he could detach those two things, he would be able to function. Returning to his office, he put aside all thoughts of the Council for a Free and Democratic Cardassia and let his mind concentrate on the terrorist group in North Torr. Two of Edan Metak’s accomplices still eluded capture and needed to be tracked down. He made himself concentrate on organising the search efforts. He did not leave until Senta opened his door and pointed out in as detached a manner as possible that it was hours later than he usually left. Grudgingly, Garak took her implicit advice and called a skimmer to take him to home. 

The flat felt stuffy when he stepped inside. He opened the windows, watered the drooping plants and put the orchids under the kitchen tap. As the water ran, he got out a bottle of _kanar_ and poured a generous measure. He drank it as he read Shoggoth’s new enigma tale, refilling his glass twice. Eventually, he put the book aside and lay down on the couch. 

The alcohol was making his body tingle. It was not quite a part of him, but at the same time he was hyperaware of it. His thoughts wandered to Parmak, not to his betrayal but to his touch. Garak remembered vividly how once, in the heat of the moment, they had not made it to the bedroom but had had sex on the floor, a metre or so from where he was now. They had had a flute piece written by one of the Boldaric masters playing. He could almost see Parmak’s pale skin against the wine-red carpet, his hair a tangle around his head. They had left his spectacles on the table. Without them, his face had looked vulnerable and his eyes had been unfocused. For an instant, Garak recalled the photographs in the file and those same unfocused eyes. He pushed it aside and thought instead of how Parmak had first squinted to see him, before letting his head fall back and his eyes close. Every time Garak had moved inside him, he had made a sound halfway between a moan and a shout. 

Now, he put on the flute piece they had listened to that time. Perhaps this was what quarantining his feelings from his thoughts would be like, he thought as he lay back down. It was picturing the face of someone he should hate but instead loved as he slipped his hand inside his clothing. It was pretending that that hand was not his own but Parmak’s, and aching because he knew it was not.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Anxiety and mentions of poverty, child labour, suicide and infringement of reproductive rights.

For three days after Parmak left the capital, Garak heard nothing from him. He had been about to start scouring the Constabulary’s arrest reports when a message finally came through.

> My friend,
> 
> I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I have just tried to observe what we said and, not knowing what I could put into writing, may have exaggerated by not writing at all. I arrived safely and all is well. My sister Kerisa is spoiling me. In return I serve as a climbing-frame to her three children.
> 
> I hope you are well.
> 
> K.P.

Garak reread the message several times. Finally he sat down at his desk and put his head in his hands. The relief he felt was streaked with a sense of disappointment. He had wanted more. But what more could he have written? The only way he could have what he wanted was by seeing him. He had a brief, dizzying urge to get up, go to the maglev station and get on a train to Lakarian City. The idea of spending time with Parmak, meeting his sister and her children…

Garak shook off the thought. He must not let himself be seduced by it. This was how it had to be for now. He took the mental image of Parmak playing with his sister’s children and put it away, deep inside his mind for when he needed it. He went back to the North Torr files he had been poring over for days, looking for some indication of where the fugitives might be hiding. He only managed to keep his focus for another hour. After filing an order to raid the home of one cell-member’s mother, he left his office. He started walking towards the tram-stop to go home, but then turned around and headed the other way. The decision was so quick he did not know why he made it. He simply let the impulse carry him to the Museum of Cardassian Art. When he entered the building, he kept his eyes down. He no longer wanted to look at the personification of Cardassia painted on the ceiling. 

Keeping his head bowed, Garak made his way upstairs to the room where the paintings of the Valonnan School were displayed. The art was at first sight uncomplicated, but then the boldness of the brush-strokes would become apparent and the canvas would speak. Often, the only ink used was black, making any use of colour equally effective and unsettling. He lingered at one of Malor’s later works. When one stood directly in front of it, the painting was of a tree, but when one moved to the sides, the perspective would change the image. He had heard that there was supposed to be a profile of a woman in the branches, but he had not been able to see it. He knew that as soon as he did, he would never be able to look at the painting again without making it out.

‘Without your friend today, sir?’ 

He turned around, startled. A man in museum livery was watching him. 

‘I beg your pardon?’ Garak said. This man could not be a museum guard – he was police, or maybe an operative, and he _knew_ … 

‘You’re usually here with another gentleman,’ the man said. ‘Tall fellow. With…’ He put the thumb and forefinger of each hand together and raised them halfway to his face. ‘Glasses,’ he finished, finding the word. Garak stared at him. His shock had changed character. He saw the man clearly now. Now, nothing about him said constabulary or Obsidian Order. He was too young and did not have the physique for either. His question had been innocent, perhaps even sympathetic. Garak looked at him more closely, thinking he saw signs of kinship. An art museum would not be a bad place to work for someone like him, he reflected. 

‘It’s just me today,’ Garak said. The man smiled. 

‘That’s a shame, sir,’ he said sincerely. ‘Well, enjoy the paintings.’ 

The man walked off. Garak forced himself to take a few deep breaths. He was glad he had not propositioned him, although he thought he might have considered it. Three months ago, he would have accepted the offer. Now, he would probably have walked off without a word. Better, then, that the man could wonder what might have happened, instead of having suffered rejection. Perhaps he had sensed that Garak was not amenable to it after all. If he had seen him with Parmak, did he have a sense of what they shared? 

That, of course, meant that someone else might have a sense of it too. He wondered, not for the first time, if they had been too indiscrete. 

He left the museum as quickly he could without it looking like he was fleeing. He decided to walk home. Now and then, he would use shop-windows and the windshields of parked skimmers to look for anyone following him. He could not tell if he was being cautious or paranoid and wondered if there was really a difference between the two.

***

It was like someone had turned back time. Garak’s existence had regressed to how it was three months ago, only with the knowledge of what he was missing. The only connection to what had been his present was the short comm messages. He sent Parmak one saying that he had been to see the Valonnan exhibition. Parmak responded by saying that he tended to prefer the rival Rotasan school, but that Malor’s early work was difficult to beat. When Garak mentioned the painting with the tree, he thought he could almost hear Parmak’s laugh in his response.

– _It is not what it seems - of course you’d like it._

He wished he could hear his voice. All he could do for the moment was close his eyes and try to remember what it sounded like. Sometimes it was like Parmak was there, whispering into his ear. At other times, he thought he might be forgetting how he talked. 

The messages, despite being few and short, felt like the one thing that comforted him. He slept badly, disturbed by nightmares he felt like he had had before but could not quite remember. The days were long and uninspiring, consisting mostly of bad news in their search for Metak’s accomplices and their efforts against the dissidents on Cardassia IV. On top of the boredom, he felt physically uncomfortable more often than not. His chest ached. He started avoiding his office, as it seemed to have shrunk and made him short of breath. There would be bouts of dizziness and lingering headaches. He wondered at what point he should give up and see a doctor about it. Parmak was the obvious person to ask, but he knew that if he told him that he was not feeling well, he would probably cut his stay short and come back to the capital. That realisation made him tempted to mention his symptoms, but he knew it was a selfish impulse. He could not endanger Parmak that way. 

His messages were as short Parmak’s, often avoiding anything important. The list of things they could not say was long. Both avoided using first names or endearments. Neither said anything about longing or desire. Five days after Parmak left, Garak felt he could not stop himself and wrote: 

_– Do you remember the time we had Tavarian stew at my flat?_

_– Yes,_ Parmak answered. 

_– I wanted to say what I told you that night._

There was a long pause. Then, finally:

_– The same._

Garak had felt ready to cry at the sight of that. It was the closest they could get to saying anything about love, but for now it was close enough. At that time, he thought that Parmak would be back in another two or three days, but the next morning he received another message: 

_– I’ve decided to extend my stay. I will be coming back next octad._

There was no further explanation. Garak found himself overwhelmed by some emotion he could not name. He wanted to ask _why?_ but knew he could not. Instead, his mind started supplying reasons. Parmak was considering staying in Lakarian City permanently – he had been arrested and the message was not really from him – he had learned something about Garak that made him reconsider his feelings for him. Somehow the most obvious reason – that he was still shaken up by the raid and his sister had persuaded him to stay longer – seemed unlikely. 

He tried to put everything to do with Parmak out of his mind. He stayed at the compound as much as possible, coordinating the search for the remaining members of the Workers’ School of Learning and interrogating their associates. When he finally returned home, he would read and drink _kanar_. Some evenings he would finish a novel in one sitting. His to-read pile was the smallest it had been since he was convalescing from the installation of the cerebral implant. Sometimes, he would play music, telling himself that the neighbours would get suspicious if that habit stopped. Instead of being comforting, the music would only just deepen his melancholia. Many composers that he had loved in their own right now reminded him only of Parmak.

As the days passed, he felt the walls which he had built between his feelings for Parmak and his knowledge from the archive wither. The conflict had only been temporarily halted, and now it was beginning again. He felt the pull back to the archive. Perhaps it was some longing to torture himself that drove him to take the lift down to the lowest level and make his way through the security checks. The archivist who helped him last time clearly recognised him when he came to the desk. 

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ 

‘I’m here to look at a file. Parmak, Kelas.’ 

‘Doctor Parmak of Paldar, wasn’t it?’ he said, looking at his computer screen. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘You realise you could ask to have the material sent up, or access the digital files?’ the archivist said. Garak, thinking of the data-trail that would leave, answered: 

‘This gets me out of the office.’ 

The archivist smiled. 

‘I’ll have the material fetched, sir.’ 

Garak was led into the same reading room as last time. The archivist wheeled in the file and left him to it. Garak hesitated where to start. Finally, he opened the last box of surveillance reports. It had not been updated since last time he consulted it, so he could not be sure if they knew that Parmak was not in the capital. He put the papers back and looked over the labels of the other boxes. One was marked “Publications”. He carried it to the desk and sat down. 

The box contained folding files bearing years. In them were pamphlets of the kind he had found in the hidden compartment during the raid, their staples carefully removed and tied together with archive string instead. Each pamphlet bore the same image of the many hands raising the Cardassian banner together. There were notes attached to some pages in them, marked “article by K. Parmak”. Garak found the most recent file marked with last year, 742, and took out the topmost pamphlet. This had only one note marking an article by Parmak. He opened it on that page and started reading.

> The western-most quarters of North Torr show the true face of the Cardassian government. Only ten miles from the doors of the ministries, children are starving. In Union year 741 alone, thirty thousand people died from diseases that have been eradicated in other parts of the Capital through proper sewage-systems and access to clean water. Food shortages mean parents go hungry to feed their children. Dysecdysis is the norm rather than the exception, regularly leading to skin infections and necrosis. Gravid women have been known to throw themselves down stairs in an attempt to damage their egg, as they cannot feed another child. The suicide rates are among the highest on Cardassia Prime.
> 
> Children as young as seven can be found working in the munitions factories in Barvonok, often taken there by their parents who see no other way to bring in money. Many chemical compounds used in munition work have been shown to be carcinogenic and have detrimental effects on development in children, but only minimal safety precautions are taken and no lower age-limit is imposed. As only the most desperate families send their children to work there, they are also the least likely to keep their children home if they take ill, and they seldom seek medical help until symptoms are severe and the prognosis is dire. Access to medical care is generally slow, all too often with fatal results. 
> 
> These are not problems with no solution. The government has the power and resources to help the people of North Torr and other areas on Cardassia Prime that are similarly affected. The situation could be improved by even minimal steps, such as: 
> 
> – An allowance to all families with children and dependants, large enough to remove the need to put children to work and allow for a decent standard of living.
> 
> – More funding to medical centres and hospitals in North Torr, especially those caring for women and patients with mental disorders. 
> 
> – Projects to repair or replace faulty infrastructure, including installation of water-filters in all homes. 
> 
> – Introduction of comprehensive safety protocols in munition factories.
> 
> These policies would cost a fraction of the funds spent developing the weapons the children of North Torr make, and yet they have not been implemented. There can only be two explanations for this inaction: either the government is wilfully blind, or it knows and has no conscience.

Garak sat back, leaving the pamphlet open. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the Metak file. They had lived on Southern Renkal Street in the fifth quarter, in the west of the sector. Was this the world that the Workers’ School of Learning inhabited? _Anti-state propaganda,_ he told himself. This could not be true. _Surely_ it could not…

He forced himself to take a deep breath. It was well-known that North Torr was poor. There were streets which people, from Coranum, Paldar and East Torr alike, knew to avoid. He had never spent much time in those quarters, but the few times he had walked through them, they had seemed dirty and unwelcoming. Could it really be that bad? He stared at the article, wondering why the operatives on the case had said with such certainty that Parmak was the author of this unsigned piece. How would he know anything about such a place? 

A memory of another file came back. Leaving the room, he found the archivist. 

‘I need a map of North Torr.’ 

‘From when?’ the archivist asked. 

‘Now.’ 

‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘That’s easy to find.’ He went into the reading room, and Garak followed. The archivist went over to the computer in the corner, tapped in his access codes and brought up the map. ‘Was there anything else, sir?’ 

‘No. Thank you.’ Garak waited until the archivist had left before stepping closer. He tapped the bottom-left corner of the map, enlarging it. Following the grid pattern of the map, he searched until he spotted fan-like medical symbol that marked a hospital, no more than six-hundred metres from the closest munition factory in Barvonok. Beside the symbol stood the text “Desar Medical Centre”. Garak fetched the file he had consulted to be sure. He had remembered correctly. That was where Parmak volunteered. He went back to the desk and looked through the article again. It was clear to him now that they were correct in their guess about the authorship. Everything it described – starvation, epidemics, self-abortions, suicide attempts, diseases caused by toxic chemicals from factories – were things a doctor would learn about. 

The thought led to another, far worse. He returned to the computer and looked at the map. Four blocks away from the medical centre, in the neighbouring quarter, was Southern Renkal Street. There was no medical centre closer than that. When he thought back to the files on the other members of Metak’s group, he remembered that they were all residents of the third, fourth or fifth quarters. In his mind, lines were connecting, forming new images. His heart had started racing, and he felt a little sick. 

He left the room at half a run. 

‘Are you all done, sir?’ the archivist called after him. 

‘Yes!’ Garak called over his shoulder, not stopping. If he did, he might lose the ability to move. He went through the security protocols impatiently. The clerks and transport technicians, sensing his urgency, did their job quickly and, he thought, fearfully. Once back in the Union Capital, he made his way up to his section as fast as he could. He burst into the processing room quick enough that Regnar almost dropped the PADD he had been working on and Senta whipped around. 

‘Do we have the Metaks’ medical records?’ Garak asked. 

‘I… I don’t know, sir,’ Regnar said. 

‘Find them or get them,’ Garak said. ‘The accomplices’ too. _Now_.’ 

‘What are we looking for, sir?’ Senta asked. 

‘Run them against the Order database. See if any names stand out.’

He turned and left, going into his office. The adrenaline was wearing off. He sank into his chair, trembling. This was not how it was supposed to go. The time he had spent with the pamphlets and surveillance reports had been supposed to be as isolated as the Order archive was. Now, his investigations threatened to converge. Was it possible that Parmak was involved with the North Torr terrorists? Could there be a connection between the Workers’ School of Learning an the Council for a Free and Democratic Cardassia that the Order did not know about? It was possible. The CFDC was not a high-level threat, and the WSL was a relatively new organisation. What were the odds that Parmak had come into contact with one or more of the members? He did not know how many doctors there were at Desar Medical Centre, or how often Parmak was there. Even if he had treated one of them, surely seditious behaviour was not something that he would discuss with a patient? But people trusted their doctors. If someone came to Parmak and said they were in trouble, would he not help them? That being said, Garak was not sure how. He did not own property that could host fugitives. Then he remembered the reports he had seen on Parmak’s finances. With the exception of the money he spent on medical supplies and sent to his father, his largest expenses seemed to go to charity. It was not impossible that Parmak might give money to patients he thought needed it. He might, knowingly or unknowingly, have funded the Workers’ School of Learning. If there was a connection, what should he do? Question him? Hand the information over to someone else? Bury it? 

He dug his fingers into the armrests, willing himself not to spiral further. It was then he spotted something blinking from inside his coat pocket. 

He got up fast enough that he could feel the blood leave his head. He did not even pause to let it pass, just grabbed the coat and pulled the communicator from the pocket. The display was blinking, indicating a new message. Steadying himself against the desk, he pressed his thumb against the reader. It unlocked and displayed the message.

_– I am coming back today. My train arrives at 18.50. Can I see you?_

Garak let out a small sound. A new kind of panic was taking hold. He checked his chronometre. It showed 17.30.

– _Yes. I will be at home,_ he wrote. Then he put his comm back in his pocket, grabbed his coat and left the office. He almost ran straight into Senta. 

‘The first results,’ she said, handing him a PADD. Garak looked through it. ‘We’ve only cross-checked Edan Metak’s records, but it seems that he was treated a few times by a doctor who has dealings with an illegal political group.’ She pointed to a highlighted section, which Garak read. He did not understand all of it, much being written in impenetrable medical abbreviations, but the parts he understood indicated that Edan Metak had had a heart condition, just as he had suspected. The entry were signed “K. Parmak”.

Garak handed back the PADD. 

‘Continue cross-checking,’ he said. ‘Don’t do anything with this material until I say so.’ 

‘Of course.’ Senta put the PADD inside her belt to free her hand. ‘It was an inspired idea,’ she said. 

‘Thank you.’ Garak tugged at his coat. ‘I have to go. Would you call my skimmer?’ 

‘Naturally. At once.’ She went back into the processing room. Garak had to control himself not to run through the corridors and down the stairs. Nevertheless, he sprinted the last few metres to the skimmer. The driver gave him a curious look, but said nothing. 

It was 18.10 when he came home. He had not realised until now how untidy the flat had become. His usual discipline had clearly slipped during the past two octads. He reshelved some of the books that had accumulated on the living-room table, collected three _kanar_ glasses and one tea-cup and took them into the kitchen. In the bedroom, he opened the windows to let the air in as he changed the sheets. Then, returning to the kitchen, he started to preparing dinner. He had just put the _zabu_ filets in frying pan when he caught sight of his own reflection in the window. He looked tired and flustered, and his hair was a mess. 

Putting aside the frying pan, he left the kitchen for the bathroom. He allowed himself the luxury of actual water instead of the sonic. As he washed his hair, he thought of what to wear. The new purple suit was very nice, but it was probably too formal. Conversely, the striped and dotted green ensemble, though comfortable, was too informal. He had been meaning to make some alterations to the new mustard suit, but had not got around to it, so it would still be too long in the sleeves. When he got out of the shower, he took out two options, then put both back and put on a mauve suit, the one he had worn the first time he had met Parmak. Just as he was buttoning up the jacket, the door-bell chimed. His stomach made an unpleasant somersault. He hurried to the door, pushing his fingers through his hair in wont of a comb. He realised now that he had neither socks nor shoes, but he was not going to turn back to put some on. He did not want to wait any longer. He took a deep breath and unlocked the door. 

In the moments as the door opened, Garak reflected that he had not looked who was outdoors. It could be anyone. 

But there he was, as real as life. Parmak grinned and stepped in, closing the door behind him. Garak wanted to say something, but could not think what. Instead, he closed the gap between them. They embraced. Parmak laughed, unbridled and relieved. Garak realised that he was laughing too. At the same time, there were tears in his eyes. 

‘Kelas,’ he whispered. Parmak let go of him only enough to kiss him. 

‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he said against his mouth. ‘Oh, Elim.’ 

Garak kissed him back, then hugged him again. When they stepped apart, their hands clasped. Parmak exhaled a laugh and let go of Garak’s hand for a moment to wipe his eyes. Garak was smiling, wider than he had for very long. Now that he looked at Parmak more closely, he noticed the new lustre of his skin. 

‘You’ve shed,’ he said. Parmak nodded. 

‘That’s why I extended my stay.’ 

Garak let out of a sigh of relief. 

‘You should have told me.’ 

Parmak shrugged, looking embarrassed. 

‘Even doctors get self-conscious,’ he said. Garak could not really blame him. Shedding was still something seldom discussed, and it was widely considered inappropriate to be seen in public when it happened. Parmak took his hands again. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so quiet.’ 

‘I understand,’ Garak said. ‘I haven’t been talkative either.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘I’m so glad to be back.’ 

‘Come in.’ Garak led him in, still holding his hands. Parmak’s smile broadened, threatening to turn into a laugh. It spread to Garak – he must look silly, walking backwards like that, but he did not want to stop looking at him. Had he forgotten how beautiful he was, or had some rest and the shedding made him more beautiful? Parmak slipped his hands out of Garak’s and took his face between his palms. They stepped close together. The tips of their noses touched, then their chufar, finally their lips. Garak put his arms around Parmak. He was there, not a figment of his imagination but a true, solid presence. Every impression was so vivid: the taste of his tongue, the touch of his hair, the way his cool skin was growing warmer. 

Parmak broke the kiss. 

‘Do you smell that?’ 

Garak turned his head to where Parmak was looking. The smell of singed meat was unmistakable. Swearing, he broke out of Parmak’s embrace and rushed into the kitchen. The room was filled with a haze, rising from a frying-pan.

‘Did you leave that just on the stove?’ Parmak asked, entering just as Garak pulled the frying-pan off the heat.

‘I was certain I didn’t turn it on,’ Garak said. The _zabu_ filets in the pan had gone black. They looked at them, then at each other. Parmak started laughing. 

‘You silly man,’ he said. Garak’s embarrassment gave way, and he laughed with him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Anxiety, oppressive government tactics, some homophobia. 
> 
> My headcanon is that Cardassians do not assign sex at birth but at around eight months, so hatchlings are not gendered. Here I just let it I elaborate more on this in my fic "The Hatchling", so if you are interested in reading more about that, check it out. 
> 
> Furthermore, I've now added an explanation of the Cardassian Union years that I have used in this fic, here: http://apolesen.tumblr.com/post/180900698747/reference-post-for-love-in-a-time-of-oppression

The _zabu_ filets were beyond saving. They threw them out and ordered Tavarian stew instead. They ate it sitting on the couch, their feet touching.

‘You don’t have to look so entertained,’ Garak pointed out. 

‘I can’t help it,’ said Parmak, who had been chuckling ever since they cleaned up the kitchen. ‘You’re acting like you’ve got Rokassan cabbage for brains, and it’s very sweet.’ 

Garak snorted. 

‘Tell me about your trip.’ 

‘It was nice, for the most part,’ Parmak said.

‘For the most part?’ 

‘All of it, really, apart from the shedding. As if Kerisa wasn’t fussing enough.’ 

‘Considering those bruises…’ Garak said. Parmak nodded. 

‘They looked even worse when I got to Lakarian City. I was afraid I’d scare the children. I think I mostly scared her. She gave me a real earful about it.’ 

‘I thought you’d told her what had happened.’ 

He shrugged.

‘I might have been vague about the details.’ 

Garak was not entirely surprised. 

‘So she fusses, your sister?’

‘Yes, and very aggressively. Refusing is not an option with her.’ 

‘It sounds like just what you needed.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘It was.’ He paused and thought about it for a moment. ‘I think she made herself grow up very fast, when our mother died. At times, she acts more like a parent than a sibling to me. She’ll sometimes use the same tone to me as to her children.’ 

Garak could not help laugh at that.

‘How many does she have?’ 

‘Three. Two daughters, and the hatchling.’ Parmak put aside the bowl of stew and got his comm out of his pocket. He called something up on it and handed it over.

The picture on the screen was of a matronly-looking woman, surrounded by her three children. The hatchling, no older than six months, was on her lap. A girl of perhaps five had climbed up on the sofa beside her. The woman’s head was tipped back, talking to the girl, admonishing her perhaps for her dangerous game. At the mother’s feet sat the eldest child, reading something on a PADD. He could tell that she and the youngest were related to Parmak. Kerisa and the middle girl’s hair was jet-black, but the hatchling’s downy head was bright white. The girl sitting on the floor had the same white hair, and looked even more like her uncle because of the glasses that were sliding down her nose. 

‘They’re beautiful,’ Garak said and handed back the comm. ‘What does their father do?’ 

‘He’s a _gil_ in the Cardassian army.’ Seeing Garak’s face, Parmak added: ‘He’s a decent man. We don’t always see eye to eye, but if he ever disapproved of me, Kerisa changed his mind.’

‘Your sister sounds like a persuasive woman.’ 

‘That she is.’ Parmak picked up his dinner again. ‘I didn’t see him this time around, though. He was busy training recruits on the northern continent.’

‘So what did you do all day?’ Garak asked. 

‘Not much,’ Parmak admitted. ‘A bit of reading. I went for walks. Lakarian City is beautiful. Have you been?’

‘A few times.’ 

‘What did you think?’ 

‘It’s a nice enough city,’ Garak said, ‘but I was more fascinated by the Hebitian monuments outside the city.’ 

Parmak shone up. 

‘We took the children there for a day-trip,’ he said. ‘They enjoyed it. Daya kept climbing the stones. She’s like a Rigellian tree-ape.’ 

Garak smiled. He wished he could see Parmak with his nieces. 

‘You spent a lot of time with the children?’ 

‘Yes. Kerisa needed the help. The hatchling’s been poorly.’

‘That’s unfortunate. Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘No, not particularly. It’ll be fine.’ 

For a while, Parmak concentrated on the stew. Garak, who had finished as he listened to him talk, sat watching him. Eventually he gave into the urge to ask. 

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Hm?’ Parmak looked up, not understanding. 

‘The hatchling,’ Garak said. ‘What is the matter?’ 

‘Oh.’ Parmak sighed. ‘Terkalan syndrome. It’s a genetic condition.’ 

‘Is it dangerous?’ Garak asked. Parmak shrugged. 

‘It varies from case to case. Ret’s symptoms are not life-threatening.’ 

‘But it can be?’ 

Parmak’s gaze softened. He had sensed what he was thinking. 

‘Are you worried about me, Elim?’ 

Garak smiled. 

‘Can’t let you be the only one worrying.’ He gestured to Parmak’s comm, lying on the table. ‘The hatchling has the same white hair as you.’ 

Parmak nodded. 

‘It’s the most distinctive sign.’ He smiled a little. ‘I was once at a conference where one of the papers was on Terkalan syndrome. After that, people gave me very odd looks.’ 

‘Perhaps they’d just suddenly realised how handsome you were,’ Garak said. Parmak laughed. 

‘Not likely.’ 

‘Then they’re fools.’ 

Parmak buffed his leg with his own, but still grinned. 

‘You said it was genetic,’ Garak said. ‘But your sister has dark hair. If she doesn’t suffer from it, how can her children have it?’ 

‘She’s a carrier,’ Parmak explained. ‘The syndrome never manifested in her, unlike with me and Zina, my little sister. But, as luck would have it, she passed it on to her children. Daya has no symptoms, but she might pass it on too.’ 

‘Is this why you wear glasses?’ 

‘Yes. Eyesight is one of the things that are affected. More or less badly. Zeetal, my eldest niece, only needs them for reading for now. Zina is completely blind. Her case is particularly severe.’ Despite the seriousness of the topic, Parmak smiled a little at the thought of them.

‘What else does it cause?’ Garak asked, fearing the answer. 

‘A range of things. Osteoporosis, scoliosis, weak joints, heart defects, malformation of the veins…’ 

Garak remembered now how, months ago, Parmak had spoken of his mother’s death. 

‘Did it kill your mother?’ he asked. 

Parmak sighed. 

‘Yes. I don’t think she got the medical attention she needed. I love Zina with all my heart, but really, mother should have been told not to have more children. I think that made things go from bad to worse.’

Then, seeing Garak’s face, Parmak leaned forward, took his hands and looked him in the eye. 

‘Elim, I promise you, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve had prophylactic treatments. I get regular checkups.’ 

Garak pressed his hands, allowing himself to let go of the worry. Parmak leaned in and kissed him. He kissed back, gratefully. 

‘I have some pictures from our outing,’ Parmak said. ‘Would you like to see them?’ 

‘I’d love to.’ 

He picked up the comm and edged around. 

‘Here we are.’

Garak leaned closer to see the screen better. The pictures were from a cloudy day, and the children were all wrapped up. He recognised them from the other picture Parmak had shown him. There was Kerisa with the hatchling in a harness on her back; Zeetal looking at the Hebitian petroglyphs and comparing them to the pictures in the book she had brought; Daya on top of one of the monoliths, swinging her legs and singing. The photographs caught different little scenes: Kerisa trying to get Daya down from where she had climbed, Zeetal holding the hatchling by the hands and helping it walk, the four of them sitting on a blanket and drinking cocoa. Parmak was only in one of them, little Ret sitting in his lap and the two girls sitting on either side of him. 

‘It looks like they had a wonderful time,’ Garak said. 

‘We all did,’ Parmak said. He put aside the comm and looked at Garak with a smile. ‘I’ve missed you very much.’ 

Garak smiled back. 

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘What have you been up to, while I was away?’ 

His smile disappeared now. 

‘Work, mostly.’ 

‘You must have done something else?’ Parmak said. ‘You can’t have spent two octads only doing – whatever it is they have you do at the Ministry of Agriculture.’

‘Paperwork,’ Garak filled in. ‘It’s been very little else. Though I have read a lot.’ 

‘Anything good?’ 

‘Some of it,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Shoggoth’s newest novel was quite decent.’ 

‘Oh, I can’t stand Shoggoth,’ Parmak said. ‘Or enigma tales in general, to be honest.’ 

‘Perhaps you just haven’t read the right ones,’ Garak said. It did not sound as sarcastic as he had meant. His heart was not in it.

‘Oh I’ve read plenty. I find the whole concept of them unappealing. All that gratuitous violence. Besides, I always find the endings contrived.’ 

Garak smiled, but could not think of a clever come-back. Catching sight of his face, Parmak took his hand. When he spoke, he sounded concerned. 

‘How have you been, Elim?’ 

Garak was not sure how to respond. 

‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘Not at my best.’ 

‘How so?’ Parmak said softly and tilted his head. Garak sighed. He felt embarrassed, but found himself talking. 

‘I haven’t seen a soul outside of work. I do not think I’ve had a good night’s rest for the past two octads. I’ve… just not felt well.’ 

‘In what way?’ Parmak asked. His tone was as gentle as before, but there was something behind it that made it impossible not to answer.

‘Headaches and such. I assume it’s because of the insomnia.’ 

‘It’s possible,’ Parmak agreed. ‘Have you been under stress?’ 

Garak nodded.

‘Have you had any more episodes?’ 

Garak pulled his hand out of his. 

‘Yes.’ 

Parmak bit his lip. 

‘I’m so sorry.’ He hesitated for a moment, then looked at him directly. ‘You shouldn’t have to feel this way,’ he said. ‘There are things that might help – treatments…’ 

Garak rose and pushed past him. Picking up the empty bowls, he headed for the kitchen. Parmak follow close behind. 

‘Elim.’ 

Out of the corner of his eye, Garak saw him in the doorway. He concentrated on putting the dirty dishes in the washer. 

‘Please just hear me out.’

Garak did not look at him. 

‘Elim?’ 

‘I am not your patient.’ 

‘I can’t ignore it when I know there are things that could help…’ 

Garak slammed the washer closed. 

‘I do not need any help.’

Parmak blanched. 

‘ _Really_? In my professional opinion, you definitely do.’ 

‘I don’t give a damn about your professional opinion,’ Garak spat, whipping around. Parmak stared incredulously. 

‘How can you say such a thing?’ Where there had been anger, there was now hurt. ‘Do you think I say that because of some cold medical curiosity? I’m worried about you! This kind of acute emotional catalepsy is a sign that something is wrong.’ 

Garak turned away. 

‘It’s nothing.’ 

He heard weariness in Parmak’s voice now. 

‘This is much more than nothing, Elim.’

Garak looked down at his hands. He moved his fingers, then rolled them into fists. His chest was growing tight. Silently, he cursed himself. This should be a happy event. Instead, he had ruined it. He had derailed the whole thing. 

‘Elim.’ Parmak was at his side. His arm was around Garak’s shoulders, his hand gripping his. ‘Deep, slow breaths.’ 

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. The effort brought tears to his eyes. 

‘Kelas…’ 

‘Ssh.’ Parmak took him in his arms. ’It’s alright.’ 

Garak clung to him. He allowed the feeling of his arms around him and his hand stroking his hair to be his whole world. Little by little, the iron bands that had wrapped around him loosened. Parmak let go of him. They looked at each other. 

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Parmak said. Garak did not know how to respond. ‘Just please, let me in.’ 

He shook his head. 

‘That’s quite impossible.’ 

‘At least talk to me,’ Parmak urged him. ‘Or if not me, then someone, anyone…’ 

Garak looked away, trying to keep his breathing calm.

‘I can’t.’ 

Parmak touched his cheek. 

‘Can’t or won’t?’ 

Garak looked at him now. 

‘Is there a difference?’ he asked. Even if he wanted to, how could he tell him what was wrong? _I saw the pamphlets in your home. I know that you have betrayed the Cardassian State. I should hate you, and I don’t. It is my duty to turn you in. I won’t be able to live with myself if I do, but I do not know if I can live with myself if I don’t._

Parmak exhaled.

‘I think this is a conversation for another time,’ he said. ‘How about we make some tea, sit down again, and you can tell me about what you’ve read?’ 

‘It’s mostly been enigma tales,’ Garak admitted. ‘And you hate enigma tales.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘I don’t hate listening to you talking about them.’

Garak found himself smiling back. He did not want him to leave ever again, but he could not tell him that. Instead, he just kissed him.

***

The first thing Garak felt upon waking up was contentment. Parmak was lying at his side, his hair a bird’s nest around his head. One bent arm was squashed under his body, the fingers slightly curled. With every breath came a soft snore, and his fingers would move.

The second thing he felt was dread. He remembered the findings he had been brought just before leaving the compound last night. It would be his duty to investigate if there was a connection between Parmak and the Workers’ School of Learning. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. _Don’t trust coincidences,_ Tain’s voice said in his ear. He turned on his side and stroked a stray lock of hair out of his lover’s face. Even crumpled, asleep and uncombed, he was the most beautiful person he had seen. Backtracking, Garak wondered if that was true. He thought of beautiful people he had seen: old flames from the Bamarren Institute, a Bajoran man he had seen in the street once, former lovers. None measured up. Asleep or awake, Parmak carried his soul out in the open. It made his face so recognisably him that it was impossible for him not to be beautiful. 

Garak edged forward and pressed his lips to his forehead. Parmak groaned sleepily and flopped over, burying his face in the pillow. Then, he turned his head enough to free one half-open eye.

‘What time is it?’ he murmured. 

‘Six-thirty.’ 

He groaned again, but turned onto his back. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he looked over at Garak. 

‘Sleep well?’ 

‘Quite well.’ It was, for once, not a lie. He had not slept this well since the night before the police raid. ‘You?’ 

‘Mm. Yes.’ Parmak stretched, momentarily arching his back off the mattress. Then he thumped back down and turned to look at Garak. He smiled, still squinting to get him into focus. ‘For a moment there I thought I was still in Lakarian City,’ he said. ‘And I thought, odd, when did Elim get here?’ 

Garak smiled. 

‘I wouldn’t mind going to Lakarian City with you.’ 

‘That would be nice,’ Parmak agreed. ‘I’d like you to meet Kerisa.’ 

‘She’s important to you.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Then I would like to meet her,’ Garak said. 

‘Perhaps someday, we could go somewhere, just the two of us,’ Parmak said. 

‘I’d like that. Where would you like to go?’

‘Hm.’ He thought about it. ‘One of those Federation pleasure planets.’ 

Garak stared at him for a moment. Then, registering the look on his face, he burst out laughing. Parmak grinned. 

‘Did you think I was serious?’ 

‘I couldn’t tell,’ Garak said, trying and failing to control his laughter. ‘We’d be torn to pieces!’ 

‘Oh I don’t know,’ Parmak said. ‘I think the Federation is far too docile for that. At most they’d glare.’ 

Garak pulled him closer and kissed him. Parmak put his hand on his cheek, holding him close.

‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ he said. ‘I meant to do it last night, but it slipped my mind.’ 

Garak tried to quench the worry he felt. 

‘What is it?’ 

Parmak moved back a little to see him better. 

‘I need to have my door replaced,’ he explained. ‘I meant to arrange it while I was away, but I couldn’t face it. It will probably take a few days before the workmen get it done, and I don’t want to stay there with the door just boarded up. Until it’s finished, would you mind if I stayed with you?’ 

Garak breathed a sigh of relief. 

‘I wouldn’t mind at all.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘Thank you. I guarantee I am an exceptionally well-behaved houseguest.’ 

‘I have no doubt of that, my dear.’ He brushed Parmak’s hair out of his face. ‘Tell me, when do you have to be at work?’ 

‘Not until eight,’ Parmak said, clearly knowing where this was going. 

‘Well, in that case…’

***

When Garak entered the Order compound two hours later, he was in a better mood than he had been for a long time. The argument yesterday had shaken him, but the fact that Parmak was not angry with him soothed the pain. The prospect of him staying for several days almost brought a spring to his step.

He had barely had time to sit down at his desk before there was a knock on the door. 

‘Enter.’ 

Regnar stepped inside. 

‘We finished going through the medical files, sir.’ He handed him a PADD. ‘Several of them have been treated by the same doctor. He’s listed in the database as a low-level threat.’ 

Garak’s good mood vanished. The PADD contained a list of dates and short descriptions.

> 7 Rijak, Union Year 736 – Lem Dokal, admitted for pneumonia, treated by Doctor Parmak.  
>  18 Sarat, Union Year 738 – Edan Metak. In hospital with chest pains; treated by Doctor Parmak.  
>  29 Rijak, Union Year 739 – Edan Metak. Routine examination, performed by Doctor Parmak.  
>  8 Targen, Union Year 741 – Tarl Mavet, treated for dysecdysis by Doctor Parmak.  
>  35 Barten, Union Year 741 – Ghatara Metak, broken foot. Treated by Doctor Parmak.  
>  10 Seltan, Union Year 742 – Edan Metak, post-surgery appointment. Seen by Doctor Parmak. 

Garak counted the names. Parmak had had contact with four of the seven people associated with the WSL. Seen like this, that looked suspicious, but thinking about it from another point of view, perhaps it was not so incriminating. How many patients came to that one medical centre? How many people had Parmak treated there over the seven years this list covered? How many other doctors had these four people seen? Parmak had treated Edan Metak on three occasions, but the last time was over a year ago. If he had had surgery, would his mind really be on seditious activities? Lem Dokal was one of the two accomplices still missing, but in 736, when he had been Parmak’s patient, he had been seventeen years old. It did not seem realistic that he would seek out a doctor he saw only once seven years ago to ask such a dangerous favour as help evading the Obsidian Order. If what Ghatara Metak had told them was true, the WSL had not formed until Sarat 741, which meant that four of the six appointments predated the organisation.

For a moment, he felt a huge sense of relief. This was not a connection. It was a coincidence. Then horror blotted it out. He could not ignore this. Putting it aside as unimportant would lead to questions. 

‘Any news on tracking down Dokal and Maran?’ he asked instead. 

‘No, sir.’ 

Garak put down the PADD on his desk. 

‘I’d like you to talk to Tarl Mavet,’ he said. ‘See if he has anything to say about his friends’ whereabouts. Don’t hesitate to push.’ 

Regnar nodded. 

‘I won’t.’ 

‘Dismissed.’

Garak turned to his computer, but waited until Regnar had left before inserting any commands. There was no reason to put this off. He found the information he needed easily and left his office. The right department was located two floors under his own. He only had to wave his credentials at the guard to be let in. No questions were asked. At the agent-in-charge’s office door, he knocked, then overrode the door without waiting for acknowledgement. The man behind the desk jumped, startled. 

‘What the…?’ The operative registered who had stepped through his door, and the blood drained from his face. ‘Inquisitor Garak.’ 

‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ Garak said. ‘Nador, isn’t it?’ 

The operative swallowed and nodded. 

‘Yes sir.’ 

Garak smiled pleasantly. Nador collected himself. 

‘Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?’ 

‘No. Thank you.’ Garak sat down and folded his hands on his knee. 

‘So… what can I do for you?’ Nador asked. His voice was well-controlled, but his body was still giving off fear signals. His was a minor department in the Order. He must not get many visitors. 

‘I’m interested in one of your investigations,’ Garak said. ‘There might be some overlap with my own.’ 

‘Oh,’ Nador said, looking simultaneously alert and relieved. He had probably assumed that Garak’s presence was a bad sign. ‘Which one is that?’ 

‘The Council for a Free and Democratic Cardassia.’ 

‘Ah, that one. It’s not much of a council, really, more a vague conglomeration of dissident intellectuals.’ Nador got out a PADD, found something on it and offered it to Garak. He did not take it. 

‘I have read the files. I am interested in hearing your impressions.’ 

Nador put down the PADD, embarrassed. 

‘I understand. Anything in particular?’ 

‘What is their aim? Realistically, I mean.’ 

Nador nodded, to show he understood. 

‘Their main interest is in spreading misinformation. They’re not interested in direct action, at least not doing it themselves.’ 

‘Whom do they target?’ 

‘Mainly the professional classes, but sometimes they publish things that must be intended for the poor.’ 

‘How many members do they have?’ 

‘Counting generously, about sixty.’ 

‘Do they have a cell-structure?’ 

‘No, nothing as advanced as that,’ Nador said. ‘There’s a core of members here in the capital of about twenty. The precise number fluctuates. Then there are spouses who are sometimes involved, associates who are only periodically active, residents of other cities - that sort of thing.’ 

‘Hm.’ It was impressive in its own way that the group had not been rounded up, if twenty members regularly met. ‘How come you have not made any arrests?’ 

Nador pulled a face. 

‘The past few years, they’ve been considered low priority. We don’t have enough hands to chase down the scribblers when people are trying to blow things up. We keep an eye on them, of course, but that’s it.’ 

‘What type of people are the members?’ 

‘Almost all are university-educated,’ Nador said. ‘A number of them met at Central University, about thirty years ago. The organisation grew out of that, as far as we’ve been able to tell.’ 

‘Hm.’ Garak leaned back. It was easy to imagine a young Parmak (had he had the long hair then? he wondered, unable to picture him without it) making friends with the wrong people and being sucked into their seditious group. Universities were notorious breeding-grounds for anti-state ideas. Impressionable people, intelligent and therefore vulnerable, came there at a young age. They were thrown together with very little hierarchical structure compared to the institutes. Unlike at places such as Bamarren, students were not taught the inherent use of strict organisations. It was no wonder that they were corrupted. 

But he could not reconcile the concept of corruption with Parmak. All he saw in him was conviction. _But the things he believes in are wrong,_ Garak told himself. _They are destructive._ But were they? Was it destructive to not want children to die from toxic metals in factories? To want people to be able to feed their families? _Emotional ploys. It all comes back to wanting to see the government fall._ But why was the government not helping those people in North Torr? 

‘Inquisitor Garak?’ 

Garak looked up at Nador. He did not know how long he had been silent. He smiled, and saw Nador’s concern turn into discomfort. 

‘The core members are all working professionals?’ 

‘With two or three exceptions, yes.’ Nador brought up some files on his computer. ‘Four, actually. There’s Amin Prenar and Selar Motak, who are both retired – Prenar was a professor in history at Central University, and Motak was a pharmacist. Enil Talok was discharged from the Fleet for medical reasons – got his legs blown off on Bajor. And Zival Evek is a widow. Her husband owned a number of munition factories, so money is not a problem for her.’ Noticing the way Garak raised his eye-ridges at that, he added: ‘We keep a close eye on her. She has never attempted sabotage. In fact, she’s been trying to sell the factories. Perhaps they give her a bad conscience.’ 

Garak suppressed the thought of Parmak’s article. 

‘Do those who are employed ever use their professional positions to further their cause?’ he asked instead.

‘Yes, but that sort of thing is hard to prove,’ Nador said. ‘We made a few arrests four years ago in relation to a union at a building site. We had suspicions that Aton Thelan, who was the architect for the project, was involved.’ Garak pulled a face. He detested unions. That thought distracted him long enough that he did not have time to brace himself when Nador spoke. ‘Then there’s Kelas Parmak, a doctor.’

Garak felt like someone had spun him around very suddenly. He hoped it did not show on his face. 

‘We think he distributes seditious literature through his practice.’ 

Garak pulled himself up in his chair. 

‘You “think”?’ 

Nador looked uncomfortable, aware that uncertainty was not taken lightly. 

‘Our source is third-hand,’ he said. ‘It came from a young woman whose cousin had found a pamphlet in her sister’s room that, according to the cousin, the sister had been given by Doctor Parmak.’ 

Garak had to pause to sort out that sentence. It was not much to go on. 

‘When did you receive this information?’ 

‘A month ago. We were going to investigate further, but it didn’t work out.’

‘How so?’ Garak asked. 

‘We sent one of our operatives to his practice. All properly signed off by the medics, of course. Anyway, when she turned up, she was seen by someone else. Apparently Parmak was out of town. Turns out he was in Lakarian City. He shook off the tail somehow. He came back two days ago.’ Seeing an opportunity, Nador said: ‘You wouldn’t be able to get us more people assigned, sir?’ 

‘This is a low-priority investigation. Your surveillance is already spending more resources than is necessary,’ Garak said. 

‘Not for surveillance,’ Nador said. ‘All I want is one operative. The CFDC may not be a big threat themselves, but their ideas are. We can chase around the violent factions, but if we don’t deal with the people producing the propaganda fuelling them, there will never be any end to it. Sir.’ 

Garak considered this. He was perfectly right, of course. Dissent would continue if the agitators were not silenced. If he refused Nador’s request, he might become suspicious. However, if he gave him the resources… The thought of his actions leading to Parmak being arrested made the dizziness come over him again.

But if he didn’t grant the request, perhaps someone else would. Was it not better that he kept an eye on it himself? 

‘One operative,’ he repeated. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Of what level?’ 

‘The level isn’t important,’ Nador said, looking excited at the prospect of going through with his plan. ‘What we need is a young woman.’ 

Garak folded his hands and crossed his legs. 

‘Are you suggesting a honeytrap?’ 

Nador laughed. 

‘That wouldn’t do much good,’ he said. ‘You see, he’s a catamite.’ He almost spat the word. Garak did not change his expression. ‘So she doesn’t have to be pretty,’ Nador continued. ‘What she has to be is pitiful.’ 

‘I’m not certain what you’re trying to achieve,’ Garak admitted. Nador shifted, looking uncomfortable. 

‘If the information we received is to be believed, the pamphlet Parmak gave to the patient was… obscene. Not the kind of thing a young lady should be reading. So, our idea was to send in a nervous little thing with some… issue – I don’t concern myself with the details, much, as long as it’s something…’ He searched for the word. ‘Egg-related.’ 

‘I see.’ 

‘People like him seem awfully keen to talk about that sort of thing. Odd, for an invert, really. You’d think he’d run a mile at the hint of a _vit_.’ He paused, clearly expecting agreement or amusement from Garak. When he found none, he looked rather embarrassed and returned to his explanation. ‘If a respectable physician is distributing unvetted, obscene and potentially seditious material to young, impressionable patients, that is a serious matter.’ 

Garak weighed his options. 

‘I’ll see what can be done,’ he said and stood up. Nador got to his feet too. 

‘Thank you, sir.’ He offered him his hand. Garak shook it.

As he left, the dizziness came back. By the time he reached the stairwell, he had to stop and try to get his bearings. Leaning against the bannister, he felt a rush of anger. How could Parmak be so stupid to hand out unvetted material to his patients? That fell under multiple laws – distribution of unauthorised medical advice, dissemination of obscene literature, corruption of youth. Even just that was enough to get him at least thirteen months of hard labour. Then Garak pulled back, realising he was not angry at him for what he had done, but that he had been so indiscrete. 

_I’m poisoned,_ he thought. _It’s infected me too._

Somehow, he managed to descended the stairs. When he reached his own department, he stuck his head round the processing door.

‘Senta. My office, please.’ 

Senta got to her feet and followed him. Garak made his way round the desk, putting his hand out for support once. He sat down heavily. Senta looked at him for a long moment. 

‘Is anything the matter, sir?’ 

‘Not at all.’ His voice did not sound quite as smooth as usual. ‘I want to offer you an opportunity. How would you feel about doing some field work?’

Senta looked surprised. 

‘I’m not cleared for it anymore, sir.’ 

‘This is quite close to home,’ Garak said. ‘In Paldar. Your disadvantage might be just what this investigation needs.’ 

He had clearly piqued her interest. 

‘How long is the assignment?’ 

‘Just part of a day. An hour at most. I should tell you that you might end up in a… delicate situation.’ 

Senta frowned. 

‘Will I be expected to seduce someone?’ 

‘No,’ Garak said. ‘But you will probably have to undress.’ 

Senta looked somewhat perplexed by this, but still intrigued. 

‘Will they really allow me into the field?’ 

‘I’ll make sure of it,’ Garak said. ‘You’ll be seconded to the seventeenth department for this assignment. The person in charge is called Nador. He’s the one to talk to. However.’ He tapped his hand against the desk to emphasise his point. ‘I want to know everything you learn about the investigation. That is crucial.’ 

Senta nodded. 

‘I understand.’ 

‘Good,’ he said and nodded back. ‘Better go see him at once.’ 

‘Will do, sir.’ She smiled slightly, unable to express her gratitude in any other way. Then she turned and left the office. 

Garak leaned back in his chair and tried to breathe deeply, like Parmak had instructed him last night. It steadied him a little, but he could not get rid of the emotional turmoil. He had crossed a line. Before, he had only watched Parmak’s seditious activities as an outsider. Now, he was investigating them. The longing for the day to end and go home to him was tempered now. Would he be different around him now? Would Parmak somehow be able to tell? _Don’t be ridiculous,_ he told himself. _How would he tell?_ He did not know, but he could not stand the thought that somehow, through some means, he might.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: torture, anxiety and panic attacks, mention of vomiting.

Garak had lived alone since he left Bamarren. There, everything had been dictated by rules and routines. Living with someone like this, almost like people lived with their wives, was something he had not done. Nevertheless, he pushed away his apprehension and set up a temporary passcode to the door. 

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to do it by thumbprint?’ Parmak asked. 

‘The reader is acting up,’ Garak lied. Inputting biometric data was not an option, just in case the Order decided to run a routine sweep of the system. This way, the worst thing that might happen was that Order security got annoyed that he was using less secure ways of opening the door. 

The memory of the undercover skimmer had haunted Garak ever since Parmak came back. The same morning he set up the passcode, he brought it up. 

‘The Constabulary might decide to have you followed, you know.’

Parmak looked up from his fish-juice. 

‘Isn’t that a bit of an escalation?’ 

‘They broke your front-door down and raided your house, Kelas. A tail is rather to be expected,’ Garak answered. ‘Vary your routes to work. Change trams frequently. Be aware of skimmers and people you see often. If you think you’re being followed, then find somewhere crowded to lose them.’ 

Parmak gave him an odd look, as if wondering how come he had thought so much about this, but then he nodded. 

‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

***

That same day when Garak came home, he found Parmak had taken over the kitchen table.

‘What is all this?’

‘Exactly what it looks like,’ Parmak said, not looking up from his work. Garak sat down opposite him and watched. A medical case lay open on one side of him, with scanners and instruments lying neatly beside it. On his other side, hypospray ampoules stood lined up like cylindrical toy soldiers. Parmak picked one up, held it up against the light, and ticked something off his PADD. He placed the ampoule in one of the indentations in the case. 

‘What are you doing?’ Garak asked, interested now. 

‘I’m checking I have everything.’ Parmak picked up another ampoule. This time, he took his glasses off and held it close to his eye. ‘I don’t want to find I’m missing something when I need it.’ 

‘Don’t you have nurses to do this kind of thing?’

‘I prefer to do it myself,’ he said. ‘This is what I bring for house-calls. If I put the kit together myself, I know where everything is, and if I don’t, I only have myself to blame.’

‘Ah.’ 

Garak watched him checking the phials for a while longer, then asked: 

‘Is the case new?’ 

‘Yes. The hinges on the old one were broken. It was easier to just replace all of it.’

They sat in silence for some time, Parmak working, Garak studying him. 

‘How much did you spend on this?’ he asked finally. Parmak looked up, trying to tell in what vein he had asked. Then he returned to his checking. 

‘About two thousand _lek_. But I need to replace the oxygen concentrator too.’ 

‘Do you have that kind of money?’ Garak asked, knowing he did not. 

‘These things aren’t optional.’ Parmak met his eye again. ‘I hope you’re not thinking about offering to pay for it.’ 

‘I know better than to try,’ Garak said. He watched him for a while as he went through the medicines. Eventually, Parmak spoke. 

‘I’m sorry to be dull.’ 

‘You’re not dull in the least, my dear,’ Garak said. ‘I’m finding this rather fascinating.’ 

Parmak smiled. 

‘You have an odd idea of what’s fascinating.’ 

‘All this speaks to your attention to detail,’ he said, gesturing at the items laid out on the table. ‘And your independent nature.’ 

Parmak chuckled. 

‘I’ll take it. Hand me that ampoule, would you?’ 

Garak gave it to him. 

‘What is it?’ he asked as Parmak looked at the label and the serum and then ticked it off. 

‘An anticonvulsant.’ 

He picked up another ampoule. Garak asked: 

‘And that?’ 

‘Berikine.’ 

‘What does it do?’ 

‘It induces labour in Bajorans.’ 

‘Whyever would you have that in your medkit?’ 

‘I have Bajoran patients. See the red tags?’ He gestured at the ampoules. Several of them, grouped together, were marked with red. ‘That’s how we mark medication not meant for Cardassians, which, on Prime, usually means they’re for Bajorans.’ 

‘What do the blue ones mean?’ 

‘That marks medications that can’t be given to children.’ He picked up the last ampoule, checked it against his list and placed it in the case. He closed the compartment holding the medications and started looking at the scanners instead. Garak watched him for a while, thinking.

‘Kelas?’ 

‘Mm?’ 

‘If a Bajoran came to you for help, and you thought they might be on Prime for the wrong reasons, what would you do?’ 

Parmak looked at him, as if trying to gauge the reason for the question. When he answered, his tone was conversational. 

‘I’d treat them.’ 

‘Even if they don’t have the correct papers?’ Garak asked. ‘Even if they might be terrorists?’ 

‘Yes,’ Parmak said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘I’m not a border-guard.’ 

‘Doctors are supposed to inspect the visas of any Bajorans on Prime before treating them.’ 

He threw him an amused look. 

‘How do you know about the governmental instructions to medical professionals, Elim? Why read up on that?’ 

‘It must have been in some article I read.’

Parmak smiled and shrugged, getting back to the point. 

‘Well, you know me,’ he said. ‘I’m very scatter-brained. No eye for detail. I suppose sometimes… things slip my mind.’ 

Garak had to make an effort to keep his facial features from betraying him. Parmak could have lied and said that of course he did what he was ordered to do. Instead, he had given him that vague answer that was as good as an admission of guilt. He did not know what he was expected to answer. He had spent his entire adult life dealing with people who disregarded their duty and now, when one of them sat at his kitchen table, he did not know what to say.

‘Just be careful.’ 

‘I promise.’ He leaned over the table and kissed him. Garak kissed back. It should not placate him so. He just wanted to push away the things he had said and forget them. 

‘It’s a little cold,’ he said. ‘I was considering a bath.’ 

‘Are you inviting me to join?’ Parmak asked, smiling. 

‘Most definitely.’ 

His smile turned into a grin. 

‘Let me just finish this. It won’t take me long.’ 

‘Of course.’ 

Garak left the kitchen and went to tap up the bath. As the tub filled, he took his suit off and hung it up. The steam from the water filled the bathroom. The heat worked its way through his skin, into his muscles. It was a pleasant feeling, but his reflection in the mirror looked uneasy and exposed, standing naked in the middle of the room. He turned his back to the mirror, watching the water instead. 

‘Lost in thought?’ 

He jumped and spun around. He had not heard the door open - the rushing of the water had been too loud. Parmak smiled apologetically.

‘You look like you have the weight on the world on your shoulders,’ he said. 

Garak sighed and shrugged. 

‘Just about.’ 

Parmak stepped closer as he undid the fastenings of his jacket. 

‘Can I take your mind off it?’ 

‘I think you could,’ Garak answered. He reached out and slipped his hands under Parmak’s jacket. His new, fine-scaled skin was soft against his palms. The sensation could not take the thoughts away, but it, like Parmak’s mouth hovering close to his neckridge and his hand settling on his hip, got as close as it ever could.

***

Garak had almost managed to put the fact of Senta’s secondment out of his mind, but the next morning when he reached his office, she was waiting for him outside.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure? he asked, feeling as unenthusiastic as Senta looked. 

‘The prison liaison made contact,’ she said. ‘The Constabulary are sick of Tarl Mavet taking up a cell, and they want his trial to be scheduled as soon as possible.’ 

‘We still need him.’ There was still information that needed to be extracted, and once Mavet had been put on trial, there would be no more chances to question him. There was no interrogating dead men. 

‘I don’t think the prison officials will be pleased,’ Senta said. 

Garak cursed the pen-pushers who ran the Central prison. He wished they could keep anyone they arrested inside the Obsidian Order compound for as long as they needed them, but the cells were too few, and keeping dissidents within the walls long-term was a liability. 

‘See if you can have him moved to another prison,’ Garak said. ‘That may buy us some time.’ 

‘I’ll talk to them,’ Senta said. 

‘Good.’ He sat down at his desk. ‘Oh, and Senta?’ 

She turned. 

‘Close the door, please.’ 

She pressed the door-panel. The door slid closed. 

‘Any news about your other investigation?’ Garak asked. 

‘Yes, sir. It seems we were in luck. We’ve secured an appointment for the day after tomorrow.’ 

‘That is soon.’ Sooner than he had thought or hoped. ‘Will it give you enough time to learn your cover-story?’

‘I learn fast,’ she said. ‘It won’t be a problem.’ 

‘Good. Anything else?’ 

‘The investigation is far from perfect,’ said Senta. ‘I think they would benefit from a better surveillance team. Right now, we are not certain where Parmak is staying. He has not been back to his house recently, but he is clearly in the Union Capital, as he is at work. The tail hasn’t been able to figure out where he goes from there.’ 

‘We don’t have the resources to give them any more people,’ he said. ‘As much as I wish we did.’ 

‘They are jeopardising the investigation, sir…’ 

‘That is Nador’s problem, not ours,’ Garak said pointedly. ‘He knows the channels to go through to request more manpower.’ 

Senta gave in. 

‘Yes, sir. I’ll remind him, if he brings it up again.’ 

‘Good. Keep me apprised of any developments.’ 

She nodded and left. When the door had closed behind him, Garak put his head in his hands. Did the Order really not know where Parmak was staying? Even if the surveillance team was incompetent, there were other ways to find out his whereabouts. This was not the fifth century - they could easily find the location of his comm. Why would they not do that? 

But what if they had? Perhaps they knew exactly where Parmak was, and with whom, and the information Senta was obtaining was tailored to keep Garak from becoming suspicious. In this moment, it seemed all too likely, almost inevitable. It felt like he was locked in somewhere, and however much he banged at the door and tried to turn the handle, he could not escape.

He had to do _something_. He could not bear the idea of sitting idle. With sudden determination, Garak got up and took his coat. At the doorway of the processing room, he said: 

‘Senta, call my skimmer.’ 

Senta looked up from her work, surprise flitting over her face. Then: 

‘Of course, sir.’ 

Without stopping to thank her, Garak set off down the corridor, towards the stairwell. A runner carrying a stack of reports pushed herself against the wall when he approached. He did not stop or even look at her properly, but he still registered the ill-hidden look of fear on her face. To her, he still seemed like the person he had been three months ago: the forbidding right hand of Enabran Tain. He caught a glimpse of the same look on his driver’s face when he approached the skimmer. 

‘Central Prison, please.’ 

The driver nodded and took her seat. Without delay, they left the compound, passing through into the city outside the walls. Through the tinted windows, Garak could make out the government buildings pass by. Regaining control, he faced forward again. This was not the time for dreaming about the beauty of Tarlak. Instead, he concentrated on being what the runner in the stairs and the driver had thought they had seen. 

The skimmer slowed as it approached the bastion-like building that housed the Central prison. They slowed down at the gate, and the driver presented documents identifying their affiliation. The guard waved the vehicle inside. He must have been quick to report their arrival, because when they stopped in the courtyard, a group of officials were already waiting. Garak stepped out of the skimmer and looked at each in turn. Four of them were guards in uniforms not much nicer than what the prisoners were made to wear. To one side stood the plain-clothes Obsidian Order liaison. On the other was an officer of the Union City Constabulary. It was he who stepped forward and bowed in greeting. 

‘At your service, sir.’ 

‘At ease, Watch-Commander,’ Garak said smoothly. ‘There is no need for a welcoming committee.’ He looked over at the Order liaison. She caught his eye for a moment, then looked away. ‘At least let Observer Kontar go back to her duties.’ 

The watch-commander swallowed. 

‘Very well.’ 

Kontar nodded curtly and left. Garak turned to the watch-commander again and smiled. The officer was barely hiding his disquiet, and it took him a moment to speak. 

‘What can we do to help, sir?’ 

‘I have business with one of your prisoners. One Tarl Mavet.’ 

‘Ah. We received the order to transfer him to the jail in Eastern Munda’ar.’ 

‘Have you done so?’ Garak asked. The watch-commander shook his head. 

‘No, sir. He will not be moved until tomorrow morning at the earliest.’ 

‘Well, then, Watch-Commander,’ Garak said, letting his voice become a little sharper. ‘I would like to see him.’ 

The watch-commander pulled himself up. 

‘Of course. I’ll make arrangements to have an interview room set up…’ 

Garak silenced him with a raised hand. 

‘There is no need for such formalities. I will speak to him in his cell.’ 

A look of confusion passed over the police-officer’s face. No doubt he was thinking about the state of the cell. He seemed about the argue, but then realised that it was not a good idea. 

‘Of course, sir.’ He turned to one of the guards. ‘Ghanok, take the gentleman to Tarl Mavet’s cell.’ 

Ghanok nodded, his spine militarily stiff. He knew better than to inquire about the guest’s name. Either he knew it, or he did not need it to realise what kind of person this was. 

‘This way, sir.’ 

‘Thank you for your hospitality, Watch-Commander,’ Garak said. The look of intimidation on the man’s face deepened. At least on the surface, Garak reflected, he was still that person he had once been. 

Garak followed the guard through the prison building and down a set of stairs. When they turned into the underground corridor, he stopped and asked: 

‘Is this where he’s kept?’ 

‘Yes, sir. In the third cell.’ The guard made a polite gesture for him to continue, but Garak did not move. 

‘Ghanok, was it?’ 

‘Yes, sir.’ 

‘Before we proceed, I want you to turn off all surveillance devices inside the cell.’ 

Ghanok’s mouth fell open for a moment before he regained control of his face. 

‘Only Watch-Commander Pomun has the authority - I mean, the order has to come from him…’ 

‘Ghanok.’ Garak took a step closer.

‘It’s for your own safety, sir,’ Ghanok said quickly. ‘It would be too much of a risk to let you go into a cell with no way of monitoring what is happening in there.’ 

‘You seem to be labouring under the misconception that I was making a request,’ Garak said. ‘Now. Turn off the devices.’ 

For another moment, Ghanok hesitated. Then he nodded. 

‘Immediately, sir.’ 

He stepped over to a control panel on the wall and entered a series of codes. Garak watched as one by one, the lights indicating the systems went out. The guard did not speak now, but only gestured for him to follow. He unlocked the door and stood back, allowing Garak to enter. 

‘Stay there,’ he told the guard and closed the door behind him. 

The cell was brighter than the corridor, but far colder. His first thought was that he was glad that he had his coat so he did not lose too much heat. Then the stench hit him, making him gag. He was used to the odours of the interrogation room, which was often bad enough to make the prisoners sick, but this was far worse. It smelled like the cell had not been cleaned since Legate Akleen’s days. Garak pushed aside the nausea and tried to breath through his mouth.

Tarl Mavet sat huddled in the corner on the blanket that served as bedding. Neither it nor the prison-issued clothing did much to keep him from losing heat. His skin had darkened, mistaking the bright lamps for warm sunlight, and when he moved, it was slowly. Lethargic prisoners were easier to handle, so it made sense to keep them cold, but Garak found the sight of the prisoner disconcerting. His eyes were unfocused enough to make Garak wonder if he was lucid.

‘On your feet,’ Garak said. 

‘Why?’ Mavet croaked. It was a pitiful sound, but at least he could speak. 

‘To show some respect for your betters.’ 

Slowly, Mavet pushed himself up. He did not move away from the wall, unable to stand without the support. Garak moved closer fast and grabbed him by the collar. 

‘Stand up straight,’ he hissed. Mavet froze. His breath trembled. Garak changed his grip and pushed his arm up so it rested just against his throat. ‘Have you ever had dealings with one Doctor Kelas Parmak?’ 

Mavet swallowed and shook his head. 

‘No, sir, I don’t know anyone called that. I’ve never met him.’ 

Garak pushed his arm sharply upwards. Simultaneously, he pushed against Mavet’s windpipe and slammed his entire body back against the wall. His head gave an ugly crack, enough that Garak thought he might have lost consciousness, but when he let go of him and the man slid down, he was still moving. 

‘I really don’t know him,’ Mavet said, even hoarser now. He scrambled to push himself up, both hands on the floor. The right looked normal enough, but on the left, three of his fingers were missing, leaving only the thumb and index fingers. The scarred skin over the knuckles made it clear how he had lost them. It was not caused by violence or in a accident, but was the result of a bad shed that led to necrosis in the digits.

Garak grabbed him by the hair and pulled his deformed hand up so it was within his field of vision. 

‘Remember when this happened?’ he hissed. ‘Remember who treated you?’ 

‘No, no, I don’t - it was years ago,’ Mavet stammered. ‘I was very ill…’ 

‘I’d remember the man who cut my fingers off,’ Garak said. ‘So if you don’t want me to break the ones you have left, tell me. Was Doctor Parmak ever involved in your organisation?’ 

Mavet shook his head. Garak twisted his hair, hard enough that some of it pulled out. 

‘I don’t know! I don’t know who he is!’ 

He let go of him and kicked him in the ribs. Mavet sank onto the floor, sobbing. For over a minute, he did not say anything. Then, face still against the filthy floor, he spoke. 

‘He was there – he came to meetings. Several times. Metak invited him.’

‘When?’ Garak demanded. Mavet looked up at him.

‘Last year, in the winter.’ He spoke fast, like a hysterical child. ‘He gave us money. He…’ Mavet retched. Garak stepped back just as the prisoner vomited. The effort made him weep again. His entire body trembled. ‘No,’ he whispered and shook his head. ‘No, please…’ 

Garak stared at him. There should be more questions to ask him and more blows to deal out. Instead, he stood frozen. He was no stranger to flashes of distress in situations like this, but this was different. 

He had always prided himself at being able to spot a lie. Even when he was a child, he would know when someone was keeping something from him. As a young man, he had been lauded for his ability to tell fiction from fact during interrogations. It was no doubt one of the reasons why he had risen so far within the ranks of the Order. 

But now, standing in that cold prison cell, he was at a loss. He could not tell which of the answers was the right one. All he knew was the dread of the pathetic, babbling creature at his feet. The stench threatened to overwhelm his senses. If he did not make himself move, he might collapse or vomit himself. 

With a determination he did not know he possessed, he took the three steps to the cell door and pushed it open. The heat of the corridor wafted against him, making the nausea worse for a moment until he could banish it with a few lungfuls of fresh air. 

‘Sir…’ 

He had forgotten about the guard. Ghanok was standing to attention, looking at him anxiously. Garak pulled himself up and smiled. 

‘Thank you for your help, Ghanok. Do restore the systems. I will find my own way back.’ His voice sounded like it always had, but it came from far away. Only half aware of his actions, Garak set off alone, tracing his steps back. It would be polite to tell the watch-commander that he was leaving, but that was out of the question. Instead, he headed straight back to the courtyard where his skimmer was waiting. He barely looked at the driver, only waved at her to show they were going. She knew better than to argue. As soon as he was in the back-seat, she started the engine and took them out of the gates. 

Garak sank back against the back-rest. He tried to think through what had happened in that cell. There were only two options – either Parmak had been involved with the WSL, or he had not. The man had given both answers. Garak should be able to tell which was right. But both seemed equally plausible and implausible. Had he lied the first time, and then told the truth? Or first been honest and then said what he thought Garak wanted to hear? 

Perhaps he had never been able to tell truth from lie. Perhaps he had just been so sure that what the Obsidian Order did was right that it had made him think there was some way to tell. Whichever answer they had wanted, he had identified as the real one. And now? He had lost that ability. The world looked subtly different, like someone had held up a curved glass in front of his eyes, or perhaps taken one away. He wanted this to be the distorted world, but instead, he feared this was what it truly looked like. 

‘Stop the skimmer,’ Garak heard himself say.

The driver turned to look at him, startled.

‘Sir?’ 

Garak closed his eyes hard. 

‘Stop the skimmer. Get out. Go for a walk.’ 

He could hear the driver’s breath, inhaling as if to speak. Then she let go of the breath and said: 

‘Right away, sir.’ 

He felt the skimmer move again, more slowly now. When he opened his eyes, he saw that she had parked them on the curb. They were on Veterans’ Bridge. The sun was behind the statues of the famous guls and legates, rendering them silhouettes. 

‘I’ll be closeby, sir.’ 

‘Go,’ he said, harshly. 

Without another word, she got out and closed the door behind her. He watched how she stepped away from the skimmer, picking out a pipe and a pouch of dried _vorsa_ leaves. He controlled himself until she had turned her back on the vehicle to light her pipe. 

Garak put his face in his hands. Unbidden, a low moan escaped his lips. Alone and hidden from view behind the tinted glass, he allowed himself to weep. His body was racked with sobs, just like Mavet’s had been only minutes ago. Desperately, Garak tried to find some shred of patriotism to hold onto, but all he found was the memory of Tarl Mavet weeping on the floor, Ghatara Metak pleading with him to spare her, Kelas Parmak looking at him with trust he did not deserve. 

He had become a danger to those he served. By rights, he should confess – considering the magnitude of his sin, to Tain himself. He should not leave out any details: that this was not just about sex, that he loved this man, that he had known about his seditious activities for octads and not reported it, that he had accessed Order files on him and attempted to obstruct the investigation. If it had only been a dalliance, Garak might have avoided any public punishment, but Tain would not protect him after what he had done. He tried to count up the things he might be convicted of: deviant sexual acts, dereliction of duty, aiding sedition, at the very least. It might be enough to sentence him to death. In fact, Parmak, who already had a conviction, was in more danger of that. Usually the death penalty for deviancy was not imposed until the third offence at the earliest, but the sedition might lead to an exception. Again, his concern was back to Parmak, not the Order. The infection ran so deep it made it impossible to do his duty.

There was the old-fashioned way out, of course. In the face of scandal, humiliation and defeat, Cardassians of old would often take their own lives. Tain’s great grandfather had committed suicide when his part of a plot against the senior archon of the Rokan province had been uncovered. It would in many ways be an effective, even elegant solution. Garak did not need to worry about where his loyalties truly lay, or whether the Order knew about him and Parmak. It would even save the Order the humiliation of putting Garak on trial. 

Then, as if a switch had flicked, he saw the other side of it. If he took his own life, people would conclude either that he had cracked under pressure or that he had done it to escape public shame. Either way, he would have no legacy, other than possibly an embarrassing footnote as someone once mistakenly thought of as a possible successor of Tain. Worst of all, if he were dead, he could not protect Parmak from the Order. The thought of Parmak grieving for him made him physically recoil. How could he inflict that pain on him – make him wonder if it was his fault, if he could have stopped it, if he had missed the warning-signs? The image of Parmak finding his body would not leave his mind. 

Little by little, he managed to pull away from it, reminding himself that it was only his imagination conjuring up images with no truth to them. Then, with no warning, anger took over. Why was that thought the one that made him change his mind? He was a member of the Obsidian Order and a loyal servant of the State. That should be his reason to live, not this deviant infatuation with a dissident. Parmak had corrupted him deeper than he had thought possible. How had this man become more important to him than the State? He had taken away the thing that Garak lived for. In place of Cardassia, he had placed himself, with his heart on his sleeve and the Union banner held up by many hands.

With strength he thought he would not be able to muster, he fended off the sense of panic. His sense of time which was usually so accurate felt garbled now, but he thought the driver was looking rather impatient. He wiped his face and took a few steadying breaths. Then he opened the door and caught her eye. The driver only stopped to tap her pipe against the railing. When she took the driver’s seat, Garak said: 

‘Headquarters, please.’ 

She did not answer, only nodded and started the engine. Garak leaned back again, allowing himself a few minutes of calm before they reached the Order compound.

***

Garak left for home earlier than usual, frustrated at how unproductive the day had been. He exited the compound through one of the tunnels that led to buildings masquerading as government offices and went into Torr by foot. When he turned onto the Square of Good Fortune, a crowd gathered under the view-screen was just dispersing. A police officer, at ease after making sure no one left during the broadcast, doffed his cap at Garak in greeting.

‘Should have been two minutes earlier, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It was an entertaining one. Offender cried his eyes out.’ 

‘How riveting,’ Garak said. He had never liked when strangers spoke to him without reason. Tuning away from the constable, he hurried across the square. Just at the mouth of the street he was turning down stood a group of young citizens – students maybe, Garak thought – still watching the view-screen, which was cycling through a mass of images: soldiers being decorated for their service, the little uniformed children in the Cardassian Pioneers holding up their diplomas, majestic landscapes from around Cardassia Prime. They were put together to instill a sense of patriotism, but Garak saw none of that in this group. Instead, they looked uneasy. One said something to the other, quietly, and they looked at Garak. He saw his own paranoia reflected in their faces. 

The Ministry of Justice always claimed that the broadcast trials were popular. People found them comforting, as they reminded them that the State was there to protect them. None of these onlookers looked comforted. Instead, they were scared. This was not the face of patriotism. It was oppression. 

Garak met the eyes of one of them. A look of disquiet passed between them. Garak turned and hurried on his way. 

When he reached Imperial Street, he saw the light on his apartment. He paused at the front door, trying to sort out what he felt. Seeing Parmak might mean more thinly veiled confessions and more lies of necessity. Garak did not know if he was strong enough for that. What if he gave in to this corruption? He could go somewhere else, back to his office or a bar and not be exposed to it… But he did not want to. He felt tired and exposed, and all he wanted was to see Kelas and be held by him. He opened the door and climbed the stairs. 

‘Hello,’ Parmak called from the living room when Garak stepped into the hallway. 

‘Hello,’ he called back. He put his coat on its hanger and came into the living room. Parmak was sitting in the sofa, back against the armrest and legs stretched out in front of him. He smiled broadly when he saw him. Even if Garak smiled back, he felt a stab of distress. He wanted nothing to happen to him, but he was helping Nador to collect evidence on him. 

Garak crossed to the sofa and embraced him. Parmak laughed in surprise and hugged back. 

‘Is something the matter?’ he asked softly. Garak shook his head and held onto him harder. They did not move for several minutes. When Garak finally let go, Parmak pulled back, running his hands down Garak’s arms. He was smiling, but it was impossible to miss the searching look. 

‘Weren’t you wearing another suit this morning?’ he asked, perhaps noticing Garak catching sight of the way he was watching him. 

‘I spilled a bowl of _hasperat_ down my front,’ Garak lied. There had not been any visible stains on the suit he had worn to the prison, but he had still changed into his spare, unable to bear another minute wearing the old one. Eager to talk about something else, he asked: ‘How was your day?’

‘It was fine.’ 

‘Were you at your practice?’ How strange this felt, asking questions rather than demanding answers.

‘No, today was a hospital day. I’ll be at the practice for the rest of the octad.’ 

‘Which hospital is it?’ 

Parmak raised his eye-ridges, but he still smiled and put his hand on Garak’s.

‘You’ve very inquisitive today.’ 

Garak shrugged. 

‘I’m curious.’ 

‘I thought that was an unattractive characteristic,’ Parmak said teasingly. 

‘No one is perfect, I suppose.’ 

He laughed, then answered his question. 

‘Akleen Hospital, in southern Paldar.’ 

Garak leaned back, making himself more comfortable. 

‘What do you do there?’ 

‘Oh, all sorts of things. Strictly my fellowship is in internal medicine, but there just aren’t enough people to go around. I was in the paediatric ward most of the day.’ He reached out and stroked Garak’s hair. ‘How was the agriculture?’ 

‘Frustrating.’ 

‘Would you like to talk about it?’ 

Garak shook his head. 

‘Alright,’ Parmak said. ‘Tea?’ 

‘Yes please.’ 

‘Don’t move.’ He pressed a kiss onto his _chufa_ , then got up to go into the kitchen. Garak relaxed into the sofa. His eyes fell on the PADD Parmak had been reading. The text on it was in Vulcan. 

Garak picked it up. It was prose. Although he recognised the grammar of the topmost paragraph, he did not understand the words. It must be medical jargon of some kind. The name of the file was marked with the Vulcan year and Federation stardate, along with the title _Dunaklar Kashkautal_. He knew _dunaklar_ was the word for an academic journal. The second word remained opaque until he realised that the suffix was _-tal_ , usually used for medical disciplines. He struggled to place _kashkau_. Then he remembered how the elderly teacher at Bamarren who had taught him Vulcan had spent an hour on the semantic difference between _kae_ , the mind in general, and _kashkau_ , the mind as an aspect of the self. 

‘Elim?’ 

Garak got to his feet, the PADD still in his hand. Parmak was standing in the doorway, watching him. He crossed to the sofa, put the tea-tray down and turned to face him. 

‘What are you doing with my PADD?’ he asked. Garak had expected anger, but he heard something else, closer to concern.

‘You’re reading about Vulcan psychiatry.’ 

‘I am,’ Parmak said levelly. 

‘You realise we’re at war with the Vulcans?’

‘I thought they were “border skirmishes”.’

‘Nevertheless.’ Garak held up the PADD to indicate it. ‘Reading material from the Federation can easily be misconstrued as sympathy for their cause.’ 

Parmak scoffed. 

‘This isn’t about astropolitics. It’s a medical journal.’ 

‘A lot of people would not see a difference.’ 

‘Well there’s barely any Cardassian material on this subject,’ Parmak said, sounding more serious now. ‘Vulcan psychotherapy is far more advanced than anything Cardassian psychiatry has come up with. Should it matter who developed it if it can help people?’ 

‘It might help Vulcans,’ Garak said. ‘But we’re very different. There’s no reason for you to…’

Parmak interrupted him. 

‘There are plenty of reasons. We’re not as different as people like to believe. There have been some attempts to use these techniques on Cardassian patients, and the results are very promising.’ 

Garak snorted. Parmak sighed resignedly, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, even tender. 

‘I think we should talk about why this upsets you, Elim.’ 

‘It upsets me that you are reading something produced by an enemy of the Cardassian Union.’ 

Parmak shook his head. 

‘It has nothing to do with that it’s Vulcan. This is about the subject-matter.’ 

Garak put down the PADD. 

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ 

‘Please don’t be like that. Come on, let’s sit down.’ He took his place on the sofa again and gestured to the space beside him. Garak remained standing. With a sigh, Parmak got to his feet again. ‘Very well.’ 

Garak looked down in the floor. He did not want to look him in the eye.

‘First of all, I wasn’t reading that to somehow force it on you,’ Parmak said patiently. ‘I am interested in the techniques and wanted a better understanding of them. That being said, I do think that you would benefit from seeing someone about your problems. And I’m not bringing this up to upset you. I am only doing it because I am worried about you, and I want to help.’ 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ 

Parmak’s tone did not change. 

‘Would it really hurt, acknowledging that something is wrong?’ he asked. ‘You are having episodes of acute emotional catalepsy. It’s not something to be ashamed of, any more than say a tension headache.’ 

‘I’m claustrophobic,’ Garak said. ‘That’s all.’ 

‘Elim.’ He touched his hand. ‘The other night, when I mentioned possible treatments, you got very upset and then had an episode. You were in the kitchen. That’s not a small room. The claustrophobia is one reason, but the episodes are clearly triggered by other things too.’

Garak pulled his hand away and looked him in the eye. 

‘I’m not a weak-willed soldier or a widow with bad nerves,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t need sedatives.’ 

It would have been easier if Parmak had been offended or startled. Instead, he just frowned, looking concerned. 

‘Does that scare you?’ he asked. ‘That people will think you’re weak? You’re not. Not at all.’ 

Garak turned his back to him and paced the length of the room. He hugged himself, trying to smother the feeling of anxiety in his chest. There was no getting away from this conversation. He turned again, but could not bring himself to look at Parmak. 

‘Do you think this is how the world works? What does it matter if you don’t judge people, when everyone else does? It’s deceitful! Saying “this is not something to be ashamed of” is just a way to make people confess things to you.’ 

Parmak exhaled sharply, surprised. Garak looked at him now. His lover was staring, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. For a moment, his gaze hardened, but then he gained control of himself again. 

‘I refuse to enforce ideas that hurt people, however many people think they’re true,’ he said. ‘And I do not manipulate people into telling me things. I’m not an interrogator, Elim. I’m just trying to help you.’ 

Garak drew a trembling breath.

‘You can’t,’ he said finally. 

‘You won’t even let me try…’ 

He interrupted him. 

‘If they learn about it, they’ll take my work away.’ 

A look of realisation passed over Parmak’s face. 

‘Is that what you’re worried about?’ 

Garak bit his lip and nodded. Parmak let out a long breath to steady himself. 

‘I… didn’t realise your job was that important to you.’ 

According to the cover-story he had used, it should not be. He was supposed to be a civil servant with a dull desk-job. To his horror, Garak realised that he did not want to lie anymore. He did not want to tell him what he was and what he had done, but he did not want to tell him lies anymore.

Parmak closed the space between them and embraced him.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. Garak held him closer and buried his face in his shoulder. They stood that way for a while before Parmak let go and leaned down a little to look him in the eye. ‘The fact remains, you do not need to feel like this.’ 

Garak shook off his hands again. 

‘I know how the system works,’ he said. ‘They have every right to request my medical records.’ It would be easy enough for the Ministry of Agriculture to get the medical records of an employee. The Obsidian Order got copies of everything, and if an operative’s identification number turned up, alarms would go off at once. 

However, Parmak smiled. 

‘Do you honestly think I don’t know how to get around the system?’ 

It did not surprise Garak, but it was yet another crime. 

‘You shouldn’t tell me these things,’ he muttered. 

‘I’m not going to neglect treating people just because they don’t want their employers knowing about it,’ Parmak said. ‘Unless it impacts your ability to work, it is none of their business.’ 

Garak tried to weigh the benefits against the risks. He could not imagine any scenario where the Order did not learn something was wrong with him. Even if Parmak altered the records, or rather made sure there were none, they would know. If he got therapy, they might tail him and see where he was going. If he was prescribed medication, they might run tests and find out what he was taking. Somehow, it would come back to them, and when it did, they would put him on medical leave and revoke his clearance codes. Every piece of work he had done in the past few months would be double-checked, to find out to which extent his mental status had affected his work. The Order doctors would pick his life apart, forcing him to tell them every little secret, using any means they thought necessary. Even if all that scrutiny would somehow fail to find anything illegal, his prospects were not bright. At best, he would end up like Senta, shuffling paperwork and running errands that were considered uncomplicated enough. At worst, they would send him to the Crate, as the operatives called it, the facility on Kora III where the Obsidian Order put those who were too damaged to be of any further use.

‘No,’ Garak said. 

Now, Parmak’s voice had a new edge. 

‘Elim, your health is more important than your job…’ 

‘It’s not that.’ It was, but he could not have this argument now. He could not explain why keeping his employers in the dark would not work. ‘I won’t have you break the law for me.’ 

Parmak looked amused. 

‘Said the philandrist to his lover.’ 

‘That’s different,’ Garak said. ‘You’re talking about withholding information from the State. Illegal distribution of pharmaceuticals.’ 

‘I appreciate that you worry, but you shouldn’t,’ Parmak answered. ‘I know what I’m doing, and I would take far bigger risks to make sure you’re safe.’ 

‘Don’t you realise?’ Garak exploded. ’We’re not safe!’ 

Parmak stopped and stared. 

‘Why do you say that?’ 

He struggled to speak – his breath was too shallow.

‘Because no one ever is. The Constabulary clearly have their eye on you, and…’ Garak almost said those two words that most people would only whisper. Instead, they stuck in his throat, threatening to choke him. Parmak took him by the arm and led him to an armchair. 

‘There. It’s alright.’ He crouched down and rubbed his back. Garak put his head in his hands, trying to slow his breathing. It took a long time before the feeling of panic started letting go. When he let his hands fall from his face, he was aware of Garak looking at him. 

‘Elim…’ 

Knowing what he was going to say, Garak shook his head. 

‘No. I don’t want you to do anything.’ He pressed his eye shut, hard enough that he could see spots of light. ‘It’s not necessary. It’s not that bad. I can function.’ 

He felt Parmak’s hand against his face. When he opened his eyes and looked at him, Garak no longer saw worry, but deep sadness. 

‘You deserve to do more than function, Elim,’ he said. ‘And if you keep pushing yourself, this might get worse.’ Garak did not answer. ‘Just think about it. It’s an option.’ 

‘I will,’ Garak said, though he would not. 

‘Thank you.’ Parmak stood up and offered him a hand. ‘Let’s drink that tea.’ 

Garak took his hand and got up. They had the tea on the sofa, sitting close together. They spoke little. Parmak would stroke his hair and touch his hand from time to time. Garak watched him whenever he was not looking. If Parmak knew what kind of man he was, he would not be so tender or so generous. Instead, he would recoil in horror. And who would blame him? Garak could sit here, allowing him to show him affection, all while he knew what the Order had in store for him. Every moment he did not speak was a lie in itself, where Parmak could continue to believe that Garak was not. Garak loved that man, and yet he did not understand how he could love him back. Shouldn’t something happen when his hand that had inflicted such pain touched Parmak’s healing hand? Shouldn’t they repel each other? 

‘What’s on your mind?’ Parmak said softly. Garak shrugged. 

‘Nothing of any importance,’ he said and leaned in to kiss him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: discussion of infringement of reproductive rights and self-induced abortion, mention of abusive relationships.

Garak had been telling himself that there was plenty of time, but the next two days passed quickly. When he woke that morning, all he could think was that it was today they were sending Senta to Parmak’s practice. How had he been so stupid to agree to the plan? He tried to think of some way to stop it. Had it been another operative, he could have made up some reason to send her away, to Cardassia IV perhaps, where there was a need for more operatives, but strictly, Senta was not cleared for the field. Short of retracting her secondment and assigning her new tasks, there was nothing he could do. 

The door to the bathroom opened and Parmak emerged along with a cloud of steam from the shower. 

‘Good morning.’ 

‘That’s my dressing-gown,’ Garak said. 

‘I don’t have one here,’ Parmak pointed out. Garak smiled. 

‘It’s not your colour.’ That shade of green made him look a little sickly. 

‘Maybe not. I prefer my own.’ 

‘Well you should have brought it.’ 

Parmak laughed. Garak leaned against the bedstead and watched as he dressed. When he had fastened his jacket, Parmak threw his hands out and asked: 

‘Better?’ 

‘Much,’ Garak said. ‘Come over here.’ He picked the hairbrush from the bedside table. Parmak sat down on the edge of the bed with his back towards him. Garak started brushing out his damp hair. After a while, Parmak spoke. 

‘Is something the matter?’ 

‘Why would you think that?’ Garak answered, trying to sound casual. 

‘I don’t know,’ Parmak said. ‘You’re just quiet.’ 

‘My mind was elsewhere. I have to finalise a report on crop-yields in the Rokan province today.’ 

‘Sounds exciting,’ Parmak said drily. Garak continued brushing his hair. It was drying under his hands and regaining its usual fall. 

‘How do you want it?’ he asked, putting the brush aside. ‘Braid?’ 

‘Yes please. Just don’t make it too tight.’ 

They were quiet for a while as he divided his hair and started plaiting it. Again it was Parmak who broke the silence. 

‘I saw that they’re performing Resar’s fourth symphony in Union Hall. Would you like to go?’ 

‘Tonight?’ 

‘They’re performing today and tomorrow, but I have a card-game planned for tomorrow, if you don’t mind me disappearing for an hour or two.’ 

Garak froze. His hands fell and the braid unravelled. Parmak turned, frowning. 

‘Elim, what’s wrong?’ He put his hand on his shoulder. 

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Garak said. His voice sounded hollow in his ears. He wished Parmak would not look at him with such concern. 

‘If you need me, I’ll cancel…’ 

Garak shook himself.

‘No, of course not. You should see your friends.’ 

Parmak still looked worried. 

‘Are you feeling alright?’ he asked. 

‘Yes.’ Garak picked up Parmak’s hand and kissed it. ‘Turn around.’ Parmak turned his back towards him and let him start the braid again. As he did, Garak wondered what would happen if he asked to come with Parmak. Would he refuse? Make some excuse? Force the twenty-odd people there to plan seditious acts to play _harsa_ instead? He would not put him in that position, and did not ask. He tied off the braid. Parmak ran it through his hand and smiled. 

‘Thank you.’ 

‘Let’s go to the concert,’ Garak said. 

‘Wonderful.’ Parmak’s smile faded. ‘There’s something I meant to tell you. The workmen contacted me yesterday. They’ve finally installed the new door.’ 

It took a moment for Garak to process what he was saying. The first thing that registered was that Parmak could have gone home the day before, and instead he had stayed another night. The second thing was that he would probably move back today. 

‘Good,’ he said. ‘It took them long enough.’ 

Parmak bit his lip. 

‘Oh, Elim.’ He put his arms around his neck and hugged him. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Why should you be sorry?’ he asked. ‘Your house is far more comfortable, and you won’t have to grumble about the things you forgot to bring.’ 

Parmak pulled away and gave him a meaningful look. Garak sighed and said, more sincerely:

‘You should move back home. We don’t want people getting suspicious.’

‘Alright.’ Parmak said, though not without regret. He brushed their chufar together, then stood up and heaved his bag onto his shoulder. ‘I need to run. Early appointments and all that. I’ll see you tonight.’

It did not take Garak long to get ready once Parmak had left. He was glad he had ordered the skimmer to come pick him up, because he did not trust himself to navigate the trams today. His stomach was in knots. However much he tried to stop himself, he kept looking at his chronometre. He whiled away most of the morning with signing reports and and surveillance rotas, but eventually even that took too much effort. He left his office and made his way to the eastern part of the complex, where the preparators had their studios. He presented his credentials to the guard in charge, who took him to the right room and knocked for him.

‘She’s decent,’ someone called out. The guard nodded to him. Garak stepped inside.

For a split second, he did not recognise Senta. The transformation the preparator had managed was impressive. Instead of her usual functional jacket and trousers, she wore a sleeveless dress over a blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons, and instead of her usual ponytail, her hair was twisted and pinned up. The softer lines made her look much younger. The most startling difference was her right arm. It was a crude prosthetic, not much more than a dummy arm strapped to her shoulder, but it was the kind a civilian would be given. 

Garak nodded at the preparator and sat down on the only chair not covered in things. These rooms always soothed his nerves. Most of it was taken up with mazes of clothing-rails, holding everything from gala outfits to worn rags. The walls were lined with semi-transparent drawers, marked with the type the items: “gloves”, “necklaces”, “handkerchiefs”, “brooches”, “pendants”, “socks”, “stockings”. Under were specifications of size and style. Around the skirting-boards ran shoe-racks with boots, slippers, pumps, anything that might be needed. A cluttered work-table held a sewing-machine and a variety of sewing tools that made his palms itch. He had sometimes thought that if he was ever demoted, he would not mind being a preparator. The sewing was just part of it. Creating undercover identities would be rewarding work, although, come to think of it, he might have read too many novels and ruined any hope for realism.

As he settled into his chair, the preparator, a tiny woman who seemed even smaller beside Senta, took a jacket off a hanger and held it out. Senta shook her head. 

‘Not that one,’ she said. The preparator bristled. 

‘This is not a fashion show, lovey.’ 

‘I can’t close those ties,’ Senta said. ‘My cover is that I live with my uncle. An uncle would not help me dress.’ 

The preparator said ‘hm’, convinced by this logic, and put the jacket back on the hanger. 

‘Something with buttons, then.’

‘That will do fine.’ As the preparator searched, she turned to Garak and nodded in greeting. He gave a small bow.

‘At your service,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

‘Ratena Sotak,’ Senta answered. 

‘Where do you live?’ 

‘Legate Akleen Street, Paldar. In the north of the sector, close to the botanical garden.’ 

‘I see. Do you live on your own?’ 

‘No. I live with my uncle, Kemar.’ 

‘Maternal or paternal?’ 

‘Maternal.’ 

‘How come?’

‘My father is stationed on Bajor. My mother died in a skimmer accident two years ago.’ 

‘How did you lose your arm?’ 

‘I was in the skimmer too.’ 

Garak turned to the preparator, who was brushing off a velvet jacket that would go excellently with Senta’s dress. 

‘The skimmer accident story _is_ believable?’ he asked. ‘Should we check with the medics?’ 

‘I know my job, sir,’ the preparator said. ‘People get plasma burns from skimmer accidents too. The doctor won’t be able to tell that her scars are from a rifle.’ 

‘Good.’ He turned back to Senta. ‘Miss Sotak, how long have you lived with your uncle?’ 

‘Two years, since my mother died.’ 

‘On Akleen Street?’ 

‘It is called Legate Akleen Street,’ Senta said. ‘Akleen Street is in East Torr.’ 

‘Apologies,’ Garak said. ‘Surely you must have been registered with a doctor when you moved there?’ 

‘Yes.’ Before, she had answered his questions with a coolness typical of an operative, but now, her voice was growing more high-pitched. ‘Doctor Sebhat, at the North Paldar Medical Complex.’ 

Garak looked over at the preparator again. 

‘Our Doctor Sebhat?’ 

‘She has a nominal position there, sir, just for situations like this.’ 

‘Alright.’ Garak leaned back again. ‘Miss Sotak, why not see Doctor Sebhat? After all, the botanical gardens is quite far from Doctor Parmak’s practice.’ 

Senta swallowed and exhaled, her breath trembling. Her nervousness was convincing. 

‘I didn’t want my uncle to know.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘I’d rather not say.’ 

‘Miss Sotak, why are you seeing Doctor Parmak?’ 

‘I can’t say,’ she said loudly, her voice becoming higher with distress. Garak stared, shocked. Then he smiled. 

‘Very good.’

Senta nodded, but did not speak, not wanting to lose the character insight she had gained. Garak trusted her to remember the reason she and the preparator had come up with. They had run it by him, of course, but he had not retained it well. 

‘Right,’ the preparator said and helped Senta into the jacket. ‘That’s better. Now, would you manage putting on a hat-pin? Ratena seems like the kind of girl who’d wear a hat.’ 

Senta nodded and took the hat she handed her. With only minimal problems, she pinned it to her hair.

‘Excellent.’ The preparator picked up a small leather shoulder-bag, only big enough for a PADD and a purse. ‘The recorder is in a lock mechanism, so don’t fiddle with it. That’ll disrupt the sound. Also, don’t put anything over it. Wear it away from your body, and when you put it down, keep it pointing the right way. Understood? Good.’ 

Garak got to his feet. 

‘I’ll see you when you get back.’ He spoke under his breath, and in a more familiar tone than usual. He did not want to shake her out of character. ‘Report to me first, before you go see Nador.’ 

She met his eye and nodded. 

‘Good luck.’ 

He left the room. The calming effects of the textiles stopped as soon as he stepped through the door. Again, he felt a hand squeezing his heart. He went back to his office and tried to work. It should not take more than an hour for Senta to come back, and he should be able to find things to do for that time. Nevertheless, he checked the chronometre every few minutes. After a while, he put the chrono away in order to remove the distraction, but instead he would stop working altogether, wondering what was happening. The knowledge that the two sides of his life were colliding made him unable to concentrate.

Eventually, he could not even sit still and drink his tea. He had taken to pacing by the time he heard the clicking of heels in the corridor outside. He recalled the shoes Senta had been wearing when he saw her in the preparator’s room. His stomach did a somersault. Moments later, there was a knock on the door. 

‘Enter!’ he called out. The door slid open and Senta stepped in, incongruously dressed in another woman’s clothes. When he had seen her before, she had carried herself like someone else. Now, the dress and the prosthetic arm looked wrong on her. 

‘Garak.’ 

He nodded in greeting. 

‘How was the field?’ he asked. Senta smiled a rare smile and took an envelope and a booklet from her bag.

‘I’d say it was a successful appointment. It all went to plan.’ 

Garak crossed to her quickly and inspected them. The envelope contained several foil-covered contraceptive barriers. He only leafed through the booklet, but made note of the anatomical diagrams. 

‘He gave you these?’ he asked, closing the booklet. 

‘Yes.’ 

Garak sat down at his desk. He was feeling unsteady, and wished he could blame it on excitement. Had this been any other investigation, he would have been delighted. 

‘You have the recording?’ he asked. Senta nodded. ‘Go ahead.’ Garak waved in the direction of the computer. He watched her as she opened the lock mechanism on her bag, extracted the recording device and fitted it into a data-rod. She handed it to him. Garak turned it in his hand. It all felt surreal. Aware he was being watched, he inserted it into the computer and pressed his thumb against the panel. It calculated for a moment. Then the recording started playing. 

There was a crackling sound of the wind, set over the sound of Senta’s clicking heels. Twice there was the sound of a passing skimmer. After a minute or so, Garak was able to disregard the background noise. The sound of the footsteps changed, from pavement to stone steps. She stepped inside a building, and the noise from the wind stopped. In its place were voices. Garak could make out an infant screaming and a mumble of a conversation. 

The footsteps stopped. 

_‘Could I take your name, dear?’_ said a kindly female voice. 

_‘Ratena Sotak. I’m here to see Doctor Parmak.’_

_‘Just have a seat, and he’ll be right with you.’_

The footsteps only lasted a few seconds this time. He heard how her clothes rustled as she sat down. 

The sound of the waiting room continued. The hatchling had stopped crying now, and instead Garak could hear a woman singing. She sounded exhausted. After a few minutes, he heard someone calling something he could not make out – a name, probably – and the woman hurried away. In her wake came a long silence. The discomfort in it was as clearly part of a doctor’s waiting room as the vague smell of disinfectant and the uncomfortable chairs. 

After another ten minutes, the crying hatchling and its mother passed through the waiting room, disrupting the uncomfortable quiet that had settled. Garak heard how Senta shifted, and the bag dragged against her clothes. 

_‘Miss Sotak?’_ A female voice called the name. The sound of Senta standing up was heard, followed by her timid voice: 

_‘Yes.’_

_‘Come this way, please.’_

Footsteps again, from Senta’s heels and the nurse’s flat shoes. There was the sound of a door opening, and the footsteps stopped. 

_‘Miss Sotak. Sorry about the wait. I’m Doctor Parmak. Please, have a seat.’_

Even if he knew it was coming, Garak had not been prepared to hear Parmak’s voice. He had somehow expected it not to be quite him, but it was. His tone may be more formal than he was used to hearing it, but there was also a warmth that was very familiar. Garak wondered if he had shaken her hand and, if he had, whether he had offered her his right or his left. 

_‘So. How can I help?’_

_‘I… I’m sorry. I… don’t know where to begin.’_

Senta’s voice was as strange as Parmak’s was familiar. He could not reconcile the trembling soprano with the woman standing to attention in his office now.

_‘Just start wherever you’re most comfortable.’_

There was a few moments of silence. Then the nervous girl spoke. 

_‘I… met this boy. And… see, I like him.’_

Garak tried imagine Parmak’s face. He had a way of tilting his head when he listened. Did he do that now?

_‘Then, a few weeks ago, we were… spending time together. He suggested we get to know each other. All the way. It was very stupid.’_

_‘I am not here to judge, Miss Sotak.’_

_‘Well, not much really happened,’_ she said quickly. _‘He didn’t really, um, enter me. And then after, he said it was because I didn’t look like I should. And I think he might be right, because…’_ Her voice broke.

 _‘What is it that you’re worried about?’_ Parmak asked kindly. Senta started crying in earnest now. Garak had to strain his ears to make out the words. 

_‘When I was younger, I used to rub my seams, and my mother would say… She’d say if I kept doing it, I’d get all twisted inside, and my eggs would be weak and break.’_

She sobbed with such force that for a moment, Garak wondered if she had lost her nerve. That ability to convince even those who knew the truth, he reflected, was a sign of a good operative. He wished he had had the opportunity to realise her talents in some other context than this. 

It took some time for the girl to stop crying. He could make her out murmuring _‘thank you’_ – she must have been offered a tissue. Eventually, when the sobs had been replaced by the sound of her unsteady breathing, Parmak spoke. 

_‘Miss Sotak, your mother was wrong. Masturbation doesn’t affect your ability to lay healthy eggs.’_

_‘But they always say…’_

_‘It’s a myth. It is perfectly harmless behaviour. It doesn’t cause any changes in your reproductive organs.’_

She started crying again. 

_‘Then why did he say those things to me?’_

_‘Well. What we’ll do is this. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and then we’ll have a look at you.’_

Garak felt suddenly that he did not want to hear this recording. He had sat through all sorts of things, of course – sound-captures from brothels and tapes of extended interrogations. This felt different, though, both clinical and private. He recalled what Nador had said and wondered if he was right. Parmak wouldn’t run a mile at the first hint of a _vit_ , but Garak might.

There was an odd sound from the tape. He realised he had not been paying attention. 

‘What happened?’ 

‘He left to get a nurse,’ Senta said, looking quite unfazed. 

Garak concentrated anew. Some of the background noise stopped - she must have put down the bag. There was a few minutes of near silence, then a knock. 

_‘Can I come in?’_

_’Y-yes,’_ the woman on the tape stammered. There were two sets of footsteps. 

_‘This is Nurse Mera.’_ There were hellos exchanged, kindly from the nurse and nervous from Senta. _‘Right, hop up on the table and lie down. Nurse, can you make sure she’s comfortable?’_

The voices were more distant now, having moved further from the recording device. Parmak was talking, explaining in an even, friendly tone what he was doing. It was different from the impatient silence of doctors like Sebhat. It was probably comforting for the patients, Garak thought, but hearing the explanations made his embarrassment worse. Nevertheless, it was over in a matter of minutes. Again there was movement. Footsteps he recognised as Parmak’s moving away from the recording device – stockinged feet moving closer to it – the door opening and closing as the nurse left. Then the quality of the sound changed as the bag was lifted up. He could hear the click of Senta’s heels, which then stopped. She must have sat down. 

Then he heard Parmak’s voice again. 

_‘Everything looks fine. We’ll send the samples to the lab, and that will take about fifteen days, but really, there are no signs of anything worrying. You’re perfectly healthy.’_

On the tape, Senta let out a long, trembling breath.

In the office, Senta nodded towards the computer, indicating that something significant was coming up. 

_‘There are a few things that might help in the future,’_ Parmak said. There was a moment of near-silence. When he continued to speak, in the same genial but educational tone, Garak gathered that he had fetched something. _‘This is a contraceptive barrier. It’s made of rubber, and it traps semen. It prevents gravidity and stops the spread of infections, if you use it correctly. It’s very straightforward. You open it, like so, and take it out. Then you figure out which way it unrolls – you see there? That’s the right side. Now, you place it on the tip of the organ and roll it down a little, and then you pinch the air out here. You have to take care not to catch it with your claws. If it tears, use another one. It does no good if it’s damaged. Well, when that’s done, you continue unrolling it, as far down as it goes. And that’s it – all done. There are instructions in there. It’s worth reading through them a few times.’_

Garak pointed at the envelope on his desk enquiringly. Senta nodded. 

_‘Now, barriers are the best way to prevent the transmission of disease, but there are other forms of contraception. For someone of your age and situation, the best option is contraceptive injections. They need to be administered just three times a year, and they’re very effective at preventing gravidity.’_

_‘I’m… not sure. I don’t want my uncle knowing.’_

_‘We can make sure he won’t be told. But there’s no need to decide anything now. If you decide you want the injections, or want to discuss other options, or if you have any problems, all you have to do is make another appointment.’_

_‘Thank you, Doctor.’_

_‘One more thing. If someone tries to make you do something that makes you uncomfortable, you are under no obligation to do it. That person is in the wrong, not you.’_ Another pause. _‘This might help.’_

_‘Thank you.’_

‘That’s it,’ Senta said. ‘The rest is just me leaving.’ 

Garak stopped the recording and ejected the data-rod. 

‘When did he hand you the booklet?’

‘Right at the end.’ 

‘Did you see where he kept it?’ 

‘In his desk drawer. Third from the top to the right.’ 

Garak thought for a moment. 

‘I’d like to look at the material,’ he said finally. ‘Would you stall Nador for half an hour?’ 

Senta nodded. 

‘I’ll go get rid of this.’ She shrugged her right shoulder, causing the artificial arm to jolt. She turned to leave when he said: 

‘Senta?’ 

She looked at him.

‘Sir?’ 

‘Do you think he’s really a threat?’ 

She looked perplexed. 

‘Yes. Undoubtedly.’ 

Garak nodded. 

‘Very well.’ 

With a nod, she left. Garak leaned back in his chair. With all the anticipation dissolving, he felt numb. There was nothing illegal on the recording. Distributing prophylactics to a young, female civilian might be frowned upon, but there was no law against it. Parmak’s last comment, if taken out of context, could be made to sound seditious, but it was clearly about men taking advantage of a vulnerable girl, not about ignoring directives from the government. 

With some trepidation, he picked up the booklet. The printing was reminiscent of the CFDC’s pamphlets, passingly well done but not professional. Whether Parmak was involved in the printing of both or if he had handed over the printing of this to an acquaintance, Garak could not tell. The cover was blank, but the first page had a table of contents. He turned to the beginning of the text and started reading.

With all the vague terms Nador had used to describe the pamphlet that had been reported, Garak had not quite known what to expect. This booklet was written in straightforward prose, and felt little like the subversive material Nador had intimated it was. Instead, it was didactic, written in the second person. The reader was assumed to be female. The pamphlet covered a variety of topics: basic anatomy, vitelline effusions, signs of gravidity, symptoms that need medical attention, different types of contraception and how to use them. Women had always been something of a mystery to Garak, and not one he had ever had any interest in exploring. There were plenty of things in that pamphlet that he had not known or even had an inkling of. He supposed that, for the target audience, it would be useful. However, an archon would not look at it that way. Certain parts of the text and some of the diagrams, though purely anatomical, might fall under obscenity laws, and the material had not been approved by the Medical Bureau. More than anything, the pamphlet would show Parmak’s character in a bad light. It would be presented as a sign of his willingness to disseminate literature to impressionable young people. 

Garak put the pamphlet down. What if he destroyed it? How he would do that, he did not know. He could hardly claim he’d accidentally dropped it in the reclamator. He looked over at the cup of red-leaf tea he had been about to drink when Senta arrived. The ink of the pamphlet was not high-quality. It would probably run if it came in contact with liquid. He picked up the teacup. 

He held it in his hand, weighing the action. It would be an easy thing to do. He just had to move his arm and tip the cup. They would have to find other evidence – and they would. Even if Garak claimed he could not remember a thing of the pamphlet’s contents, Senta’s statement would be enough of an incentive to raid Parmak’s practice and home. They would find the pamphlets and leaflets hidden behind the false wall of the wardrobe, and other booklets like this one, tucked away in his desk. 

Garak took a sip of the lukewarm tea and winced. He would have to brew a new pot.

***

Garak put off leaving the compound for as long as possible that day. When he arrived to Union Hall, he had expected to find Parmak standing outside. Instead, it was Garak who was kept waiting. The lady in the ticket booth was eyeing him impatiently as others filed in, leaving him the only one standing on the steps. He was looking at his chronometre when Parmak finally came into sight at a run.

‘Sorry,’ he panted. ‘I was called away. Had to deal with rather a bad compound fracture.’ 

‘You’re just in time,’ Garak said. Together they hurried up the stairs and paid for their ticket. The lady closed the blinds to the booth as soon as they had cleared the door. 

In the concert hall, the orchestra was just finishing tuning their instruments. Garak looked around for somewhere to sit, worrying that they might have to sit apart, but Parmak pulled at his sleeve to get his attention. There were two empty seats towards the back, just at the aisle. When they had sat down, Parmak caught Garak’s eye and smiled. His eyes were sparkling. Garak managed a small smile in return. It was a wonder, he thought, that anyone could be in such a good mood after a day of compound fractures and nervous patients. 

The orchestra started playing. As so often with Resar’s music, the first moments made Garak breathe in sharply. In that music, all his thoughts were dissolved and his soul rose. The string section whirled around him. The percussion dictated his heart-beat. The brass section formed a comforting hum against his bones. 

It did not last long enough. As soon as it had started, it was over, and he was catapulted back into the real world. The audience applauded. When Garak looked around, he saw several people clapping palm to back of hand, like Bajorans. Were they veterans who had gone native, or dissidents making a statement? Glancing over at Parmak, he saw that he at least was clapping palm to palm. Parmak, feeling his eyes on him, looked over and spoke. He could not hear the words, but saw his lips forming the words “that was excellent”. He nodded, not knowing what else to do. He wanted to music to start again and release him from his thoughts. When the applause had ceased and they made their way out, Parmak’s hand rested on his in the crowd. Garak pulled his hand away without looking at him. He did not want to show the stab of annoyance he felt. 

Outside, the crowd thinned. The pair started walking towards the shuttle-stop. Neither spoke. Garak wondered if Parmak too was thinking about the fact that once they got there, they would go in opposite directions. 

In the west, the night sky was disrupted by a brown cloud, a portent of a dust storm. You could taste it on the wind. Garak felt the fine particles stick to his lips and tongue. When he yawned, the dust seemed to fill his mouth and caused a coughing fit. They stopped as he coughed and spat. 

‘Perhaps we should call for a skimmer,’ Parmak said. The weather had mellowed his good mood. 

‘It’s not that bad,’ Garak said and cleared his throat. He wished he had a water-skin, but he had not anticipated the dust season to start for another octad. Instead, he wrapped his scarf higher to protect his nose and mouth. Parmak did the same and eyed the sky. 

‘Foreboding, isn’t it?’ Garak said. Parmak nodded, but did not say anything. ‘What are you thinking about?’ 

Now he looked away from the dust cloud. 

‘I was remembering a patient. A six-year-old boy. I recommended to his parents they should get him out of the capital before the dust season started. His lungs are too weak to deal with the levels here. I wonder if they left.’ 

‘Why ever would they not?’ 

Parmak sighed deeply. 

‘They’re poor.’ 

They started walking again. 

‘What will happen if they haven’t left?’ Garak asked. 

Parmak looked down in the ground and kicked a stray rock. 

‘In all likelihood, he will not survive.’ 

Garak put his hand on Parmak’s back. 

‘And that would be his parents’ fault. You told them to leave the city.’ 

Parmak stepped away from his touch. 

‘It wouldn’t be their fault either,’ he said sharply. ‘If they had been among my patients in Paldar, they would have been able to leave the same day I suggested it. But because they live in North Torr, they can’t. They’d have to find the money to travel. They’d have to find someone to stay with, because they couldn’t afford two rents. They’d have to decide who should take him, because they can’t both go, as the one who leaves will lose their job, and they have another five children to feed. With all that, how can it be their fault if their son dies? They didn’t choose their circumstances.’ Parmak’s eyes blazed. ‘We are supposed to be a civilised society, Elim. How can we allow a child to die just because he’s poor?’ 

Garak felt pinned under his gaze. He had never seen him so passionate before. All at once, he realised how dangerous he was, with convictions that strong, and how pure his intentions were, despite what the law said. It was like standing in front of Malor’s tree painting and catching sight of one of the shapes in the branches. He knew that he would never be able to look at Parmak again without seeing that fire in him. 

‘I don’t know,’ Garak admitted. 

Parmak pulled his fingers through his hair. They were standing close enough that Garak could see how the fine dust that had got stuck in it was shaken loose. 

‘He lived in North Torr,’ Garak said to confirm it. 

Parmak nodded. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘You volunteer there?’ 

He had intended it as a question, but it sounded more like a statement. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Is it true that women throw themselves down stairs to crack their eggs?’ 

There was no avoiding the look of surprise on Parmak’s face when he looked up at him, but then he schooled his features. 

‘I’ve treated women who’ve done it.’ 

‘What happens to them?’ Garak asked. 

Parmak crossed his arms. 

‘It depends on how bad the fall is. Some die on impact. But even if they don’t injure themselves in the fall, they’re not out of danger. If the shell formation is advanced, the fragments can cut into the wall of the oviduct. That can lead to haemorrhaging, infection, sepsis…’ He trailed off.  
Garak swallowed, trying to steady himself. 

‘Why?’ 

‘Any number of reasons,’ Parmak said. ‘They can’t afford to feed a child. They are unwed and do not want to become outcasts. They were raped. Their husband is violent and they are afraid what might happen to the hatchling. They want to be able to say it was an accident. They have no access to safer means.’ He paused to rearranged the scarf, shaking the dust from the folds. ‘It’s not the only method. I see quite a lot of poisonings, attempts to pierce the shell with knitting-needles, that sort of thing.’ 

Garak did not really know what sort of thing that was, but felt that was for the best. The mention of knitting-needles made him wince. 

‘How do you stop them doing those things?’

Parmak looked guarded. 

‘You provide contraception. Failing that, you give them access to medications that prevent shell formation.’ 

‘Would that change anything?’ Garak asked.

The fire in Parmak’s eyes flared up again. 

‘It would keep women from killing themselves. And I, at least, am tired of seeing my patients die because of things that could be prevented.’ 

They were back where they had started, but now, Parmak’s anger was directed at him. 

‘Do you have any idea how difficult they make it for these women? Most won’t realise they’re gravid until after four or five days, which means they have at most two octads before they lay the egg, but the law requires two doctors from different practices to sign off on a termination. If they live somewhere like Paldar and have the money, that tends not to be a problem, but in North Torr, that’s virtually impossible. Those women can’t spend their days in a waiting-room hoping that they’ll be seen. And even if they manage to get those signatures, the resources to perform the abortion might not even be available, and for the most ridiculous reason. Can you guess what it costs to produce one dose of the compound that dissolves the shell’s protein matrix? Half a _lek_. It’s an incredibly basic compound. But it is, for reasons that have nothing to do with reality, marked as a medication that is seldom required, so there is a constant shortage, and they charge thirty, forty times the manufacturing price. One ampoule will cost a third of my budget for stocking my medkit. At that price, there’s no way the hospitals in North Torr can afford it. And even if they get hold of the money, they’d rather spend it on something else, because they know that if they get known as the hospital that aborts the citizens of tomorrow, they will get no more money at all. And because the hospitals won’t buy it, there is clearly no need for it, so they produce less of it, and the whole vicious circle starts again. Never mind that there are people dying.’ 

He turned, as if to storm off. Garak grabbed his arm. Parmak faced him again. The anger in his eyes faded at the sight of Garak’s expression. 

‘I don’t know how you can bear seeing those things,’ he said sincerely. 

Parmak shrugged.

‘I can help.’ 

‘But you don’t have to. It’s not your job.’ 

‘Perhaps not.’ He took a moment to structure his thoughts. ‘I sometimes wonder if I do it for the right reasons. Perhaps it’s just so I can sleep at night.’ 

‘Does it make a difference to them?’ 

‘I suppose it doesn’t.’ Parmak bit his lip and looked at Garak. He tried to hide the apprehension in his voice, but failed. ‘Elim, where did you hear about this?’ 

‘I… I can’t remember,’ Garak said quickly. ‘I think I heard someone mention it. No idea where.’ 

Parmak watched him for another moment. 

‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘Let’s go home.’

‘I thought you were going back to Paldar, now that your door was fixed.’ 

He smiled. 

‘Well, you could come see it for yourself.’ 

Garak returned the smile. 

‘I’d like that.’


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: mental illness, vomiting, physical child abuse, brief mentions of animal cruelty for sport and suicide ideation.
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter will be up around the 11th of January, and the epilogue (marked chapter 13 on here) will be up the day after that.

The flat felt different without Parmak. Although they saw each other most days, it was not the same as always waking up in the same bed. Sometimes, when he found himself bored, Garak would try to think of ways for them to live together permanently. However much he tried, he knew there was no way to do it without attracting suspicion. His own living arrangements had to be carefully vetted by the Order, and if Parmak cohabited with another man, the constabulary would arrest him instantly. It remained a vague fantasy that he knew could not come to pass. 

Still, he preferred it to the other things he would mull over when his attention wandered. Now that he had a legitimate reason to study the CFDC files, he had taken the opportunity to read through all the material the Order had amassed on Parmak. The archivist who had brought him the paper copies had said it was not particularly big, but it took Garak days to go through the whole file. His whole life was laid out there – everything from his finances to his family was described in detail. As for his dissident activities, there was more than enough for a trial. It seemed like the one thing missing was enough manpower to round up all members of the organisation at the same time. Garak had made it clear to Nador that he had only seconded Senta to him for the one mission he had already planned, but he had turned out to be more tenacious than he had expected. It seemed like Garak’s interest in the CFDC had sparked the idea that the investigation might be brought to a close, and he had requested more manpower from Garak several times. 

There were three possible outcomes. Garak might eventually be forced to give him at least some of the men he wanted, Nador might turn to someone else and get the hands he needed from them, or Nador might conduct the raid with too few operatives or with people borrowed from the army or constabulary. The last possibility was the most worrying. Such raids were always violent and tended to result in high body-counts on both sides. At least it was also the least likely, unless Nador was more of a fool than he seemed.

In the meantime, Garak had identified two courses of action. He would stall Nador for as long as possible, with red tape or false leads. Simultaneously, he had to get Parmak off Cardassia Prime. Even getting him to a colony would make him safer, but it might not be enough. To keep him completely safe, he needed to get him out of the Cardassian sphere of influence altogether. That would put him outside the reach of the ordinary Cardassian authorities, and the Order was unlikely to put in the resources on such a minor threat. Garak went through the possibilities in his head. An independent world was too unprotected. Garak did not trust the Romulans, and their diplomatic connections with Cardassia were too strong. The Klingons were honour-obsessed warriors who would have no sympathy for a defector and doctor. 

It had to be the Federation. They would offer Parmak political asylum, perhaps even asylum on compassionate grounds on account of Cardassian deviancy laws. Some years ago, Garak had arranged a fraudulent defection of a physicist. The plan had been to convince Federation officials to take in the scientist, who would give them false intelligence and relay back any information she found out to the Order. Something had gone wrong, and within two weeks of the defection she had been dead. It had appeared to be suicide, but Garak thought the Federation was probably behind it. The Federation always claimed they played by different rules than others, but even if Garak did not find that believable, in this case he thought the fault was the operative’s. She must have slipped up and they had found out she was a double agent. Had it not been for that, it would have worked. They had devised the plan precisely because the Federation was interested in giving dissenters from other worlds political asylum in exchange for information. He was certain they would take in Parmak. So little news came from inside the Cardassian Union, they would want to know everything they possibly could. 

It was just a question of finding the right cover. Garak had started looking for some medical conference on a neutral world. It was rare for Cardassian scientists to be allowed outside the Union, but not unheard of. He recalled Parmak’s scroll of Vulcan poetry, carried home as contraband by a fellow scientist returning from a conference. The ideal situation would be if Garak could find some scientific gathering with a delegation sent from Starfleet. If Parmak approached them, they could give him temporary asylum and keep him safe until the right Federation agencies got involved. 

The issue, of course, was to convince Parmak to leave. He could try to plant the idea of the conference somehow, but that relied too much on chance. He racked his brains for days, trying to think of someone at the Medical Bureau who owed him a favour or was susceptible to blackmail. If he could get someone to recommend Parmak for a delegation, that would be more of an incentive. Garak thought he would be able to disrupt the vetting process long enough that no one would grow suspicious. Still, Parmak would have to agree to go, and he remembered how reluctant he had been to leave the city after the raid. What if his sense of duty to this patients overrode his curiosity about the worlds beyond Cardassian influence? 

That made him wonder if it would not be easier to more or less abduct him. That would mean revealing his true nature, and he hated that thought. Even if he asked Parmak to trust him, he would have questions. Furthermore, that would mean Garak would have to leave as well. He tried to imagine living out his life in exile. It would not be a long life – the few times Obsidian Order operatives had defected, they had died within a year – but maybe, it would be worth it. Sometimes, he would look at Parmak and tried to imagine never seeing him again. The thought made him feel sick. Would it not be better to spend what little time he had left with him, and die knowing he was safe? Perhaps all the planning was unnecessary, and they should just run? He wished he had the courage to take his hands and say, _let’s go to the spaceport, bribe a pilot and leave. We’ll make a new life, you and me, far away from the Obsidian Order._ All he wanted was more time. If only he was more of a foolish romantic, the kind of person he had always despised! He remained quiet. 

With all that on his mind, Garak had looked forward to their usual museum trip that Daret. However, around midday, he received a message: 

_– I’m so sorry, won’t be able to make it tonight. I have to fill in for a colleague._

Garak swallowed his disappointment and wrote back, assuring him that it was fine. He wanted to suggest Parmak came to him when he was done, but putting such a thing in writing was not easy. He sent the message without it and went back to his work. The Cardassia IV situation had flared up again and one of the operatives had been killed. He had been going through agent profiles, trying to find someone to replace the dead man, but he could not concentrate. With a sigh of frustration, he threw his stylus down. He considered getting out the PADD with the list of medical conferences that he had encrypted and hidden in a locked drawer. He had found several good candidates: there was a symposium on exobiological orthopaedics on Cerberus II, a series of lectures on genetic disorders on Theta Zibal III and a conference on mammalian endocrinology on Adigeon Prime. It was just a question of choosing the one best-suited to his plan. 

He was about to retrieve the PADD when he something caught his attention. There was voices coming from outside his office. People seldom stopped to chat in the corridors of the compound. Both curious and cautious, he got up and opened the door. 

A little way down the corridor, he saw Senta. The man she was talking to had his back turned to Garak, but he was unmistakable. Garak watched as Senta said something, and Enabran Tain turned around. His face shone up. Pausing only to dismiss Senta, he approached Garak. 

‘There are you,’ Tain said. ‘I was looking for you.’ With a hand on his shoulder, he steered him into the office. ‘I had a nice chat with your subordinate – what was her name?’ 

‘Senta.’

‘Senta,’ Tain repeated. ‘Fine-looking woman. Shame about the arm.’ 

‘She’s very capable,’ Garak said, letting the comment about her looks pass. He was not sure if this tendency to comment on women’s appearance was something Tain did with anyone with whom he was comfortable or only with Garak. He had never actively tried to set him up with a woman, and so the mentions might be about mockery than rather suggesting objects of his attention. If the latter, it would not go far. As far as Garak knew, Senta was about as likely to be interested in him as he was to be interested in Senta. 

‘I’ve been meaning to raise the subject of her,’ Garak said. ‘I think she would be an asset in the Order archive.’ 

‘Hm,’ Tain said, sounding positive. ‘Maybe so.’ 

‘She is overqualified for the clerical work she does now. She would thrive in the position of analyst.’ 

Tain thought about it, nodding to himself. 

‘Not impossible,’ he said. ‘I heard you sent her into the field?’ 

‘Paldar is hardly “the field”,’ Garak said. ‘Nador needed a female operative. Senta was perfect for the mission.’ 

‘Nador,’ Tain said slowly, almost like he was trying to remember who he was. ‘I’ve never much liked him.’ 

‘He’s not the most charismatic man I’ve met,’ Garak admitted. ‘And not a little stubborn.’

Tain clapped his hands together. 

‘Enough of this,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s been too long, Elim. Will you come for dinner tonight?’ 

Garak quenched a sigh of relief at the prospect of not spending the evening alone and at the mercy of his own mind. 

‘Of course, Enabran.’ 

‘Good.’ Tain clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.’ 

‘I won’t.’

***

The house of Enabran Tain stood on one of the lower hills of Coranum. In the right light, one could see the Tarlak memorial grounds from the porch. Now, the dark had settled in the Tarlak valley and the dust thickened the air. All Garak could make out was a hint of the tallest tombs. He turned away from the view and rang the bell.

She had been waiting in the hallway for him, he was sure. Within three seconds, the door had been unlocked and opened, revealing Mila on the other side. She stepped aside without a word, and closed the door behind him once he had come inside. As the locks were activated, Garak took off his respirator. After making sure the door was locked, Mila turned to him.

‘Let me look at you.’

Equal parts brusque and tender, she took his face between her hands and angled his head from side to side, then down so she could meet his eyes. She seemed displeased with what she saw. 

‘You’re looking peaky,’ she said, letting go of him. ‘And your hair is too long.’ 

Garak knew she was right about his hair. It was longer than he liked, covering the nape of his neck entirely, and the tips were in a terrible state. Parmak had teased him about it only the other day and had offered to trim it for him. He should have taken him up on it. Tain was bound to notice such a detail. 

‘It’s been a busy time.’ 

‘Too busy for half an hour at the barber? I doubt it.’ Mila said and took his coat and respirator from him. With more care than when she had touched him, she draped the coat over her arm. ‘Tain is upstairs, in the study. He’s waiting for you.’ 

‘Thank you, Mila.’ 

The hallway had been dimly lit. When Garak climbed the stairs, he noticed that the upper floor was even darker. The only light came from the open door of the study. It cast the ancestral portraits in the corridor into shadow, hiding the faces of Tain’s family. From memory, Garak could make out details - a lance here, a _perek_ flower there. He did not pause to look at them closer. The dark made the corridor smaller. He stepped into the study. 

‘Garak! Come in, my boy,’ Tain said and heaved himself to his feet. ‘ _Kanar_?’ 

‘Please.’ 

Tain poured him a generous measure and handed it to him before retrieving his own glass. Solemnly, he raised it. 

‘Cardassia.’

‘Cardassia,’ Garak repeated. They emptied their glasses, as was the custom. Tain fetched the bottle and refilled their drinks. 

‘Sit down,’ he said genially. They took their seats. Garak remembered the first time he had sat in this very chair – he always recognised it because there was a chip of wood missing from one of the armrests. He must have been six years old and had been sent in by Mila to dust. Usually she had him stay in the kitchen while she did that, but there must have been something happening that day, a dinner that needed preparing or an outfit that Tain needed laundered. As Garak had dusted the shelves, he had looked at the chair, made from dark wood with intricate carvings on the back. The legs were shaped like an animal’s, with paws and claws. The most fascinating thing had been the upholstery: blood-red, with even, soft threads, almost like fur (he had never heard the word ‘pile’). He had only touched it at first. Then, gathering his courage, he had climbed onto it and sat down. The chair had been so deep that he could not have his back to the backrest and bend his knees over the seat’s edge. He had put his hands on the arm-rests and felt where a chip of wood had been knocked off. He had been so absorbed that he had not heard Tain outside the door. When he stepped inside, Garak had not had time to do more than look up in surprise. The master of the house had taken him by the scruff of the neck, pulled him off the chair and thrashed him. When Mila had been informed that he had sat on the furniture, she had thrashed him too. 

Now, the chair was a comfortable size. The imperfection that he recalled he had been able to dip a finger into was now small enough that he could not really fit the point of his claw in it. He wondered if Tain recalled that beating. Probably not – there had been so many. Garak tried to push away the memory and concentrate on the present. Tain was smiling pleasantly at him. 

‘It’s been too long,’ he said. ‘What might it be – four months?’ 

‘Something like that,’ Garak said. He could not rightly recall when he had last been to dinner at Tain’s house, but it had been before his first meeting with Parmak. Tain, he was certain, remembered the exact date. He always did. 

‘You’ve been doing stellar work on the Cardassia IV situation.’

‘One of the operatives died,’ Garak reminded him. Tain waved a hand. 

‘Pah! Operatives die. The point is the outcome.’ 

To Garak, the outcome of the Cardassia IV situation did not seem within reach yet, and he feared he had neglected it over North Torr, but he knew better than to reject Tain’s praise twice. He bowed his head to show his gratitude. 

‘Have you heard the latest whisperings about Legate Prelak?’ Tain asked. 

‘No.’ 

‘Apparently he’s no longer considering Gul Tomar as a successor to Gul Morek, and the reason, they say, is that Tomar is a little too friendly with the legate’s daughter.’ 

‘Didn’t Prelak’s daughter get married recently?’ 

‘Yes, and not, as you will recall, to Tomar.’ 

Garak chuckled. Gossip about the goings-on at Central Command was always amusing. 

‘Then what is he going to do about Gul Morek’s replacement?’ 

‘From what I’ve heard, he has no one else lined up,’ Tain said. ‘It looks like Morek won’t retire after all.’ 

‘He won’t like that,’ Garak said. Tain grinned. 

‘It’s to our advantage. Morek has been losing his touch for a long time now. If he remains the only person Prelak can count on…’ He threw his hands open. 

‘To our advantage, or Cardassia’s?’ Garak asked without thinking. Tain raised an eye-ridge. 

‘Are they different things?’ 

Garak forced himself to smile. 

‘Of course not,’ he said. As he spoke, he felt the poison inside his heart. _Cardassia is not the State, but Her people._

There was a knock on the door. Tain’s eyes left him. No longer under his gaze, Garak exhaled. 

‘Enter.’ 

Mila step inside. 

‘Dinner is ready, sir.’ 

‘Excellent,’ Tain said. ‘Come along, Elim.’ His voice was relaxed and affable again, as if he had forgotten all about the lapse he had witnessed. Garak followed him out of the study to the dining room. 

The men remained standing as Mila pushed a serving trolley into the room. Garak had seen this ritual many times, but had never taken part in it. Tain produced a small case out of his pocket, unlocked it with his thumb-print and from it took out a key, which he handed to Mila. She unlocked a cupboard in the corner and carried the wooden box inside to the table. Tain undid the lock with the print of his index finger this time and allowed Mila to lift the lid. The device inside was heavy, but Mila took it from the box without trouble. As Tain retrieved a case of scissors, tweezers, and pipettes, Mila lifted up the first serving platter. He took hold of a piece of cured meat with the tweezers and snipped off the edge. He dropped it into the hole of the machine and set it working. There was a long, electrical hum, followed by the sound like a clear bell. Tain nodded, and Mila put the dish down on the table. 

Each plate, bowl and tureen was tested. Nothing was placed on the table until a sample had been analysed and found to be harmless. The process took over ten minutes, but Garak cherished the silence. He knew that this was not something that happened in normal households, but there was a sense of partnership between the housekeeper and the spymaster as they performed this well-rehearsed dance. It was, however roundabout it seemed, a sign that they shared something. 

When the last dish had been placed on the table, Mila replaced the analyser and locked it up again. The men took their seats as she served them. Tain dismissed her with a nod. When the door had closed behind her, Tain looked at Garak, sitting on the opposite short side of the table. 

‘This looks rather nice, doesn’t it?’ he said and shook out his napkin. 

‘Yes.’ Garak unfolded his own and placed it in his lap. 

‘It’s a shame, you know, that you don’t follow the hounds,’ Tain said. ‘This past octad’s races were exhilarating. One was down to the millisecond. Very exciting.’ 

‘I can imagine.’ 

‘I don’t think you can,’ Tain said with a smile. ‘There’s nothing quite like that rush of excitement when you don’t know if you’re going to win or lose. Of course, when I was young, I got plenty of that in other ways. More… patriotic pursuits. But on the whole, the hounds are safer. Not always, of course. Last month, two of the hounds attacked a trainer. They tore his throat open. People forget that those creatures were bred to hunt as much as race.’ 

As Tain continued his excursus on the merits of hound-racing, Garak nodded and ate, knowing he could not be made to respond if he was chewing. He had nothing to say on the topic. 

Tain slipped into another tangent. 

‘There is something about this kind of diversion that seems universal,’ he observed. ‘Men of our standing might follow the hounds, but the common soldier will bet on voles fighting one another. Have you ever seen vole-fighting, Elim?’ 

‘A few times,’ Garak said. It was a brutal sport. He pushed aside the cured meat left on his plate. 

‘I remember once, on Kora II – I was there to visit the Military Institute, the reasons really aren’t important – I saw a vole that had won a hundred and twelve fights. It was covered in scars, and I watched it get its hundred and thirteenth kill. It really was something.’ 

‘It must have been.’ 

‘Did you know that the Federation has outlawed any sports that use animals?’ Tain asked. ‘Apparently it’s…’ He searched for the word, then switched to Federation Standard. ‘ _Inhumane_.’ He laughed and went back to Cardassian. ‘I understand why the Vulcans wouldn’t have that kind of thing – they don’t even eat meat. But the Tellarites? The humans? Frankly, it’s confounding. I’m sure they do it in secret, though. After all, hypocrisy is the Federation’s lifeblood.’ 

Garak thought of the operative he had lost in the fraudulent defection. Perhaps the Federation authorities had not found out about her double-cross at all, but killed her just for defecting. Could he be buying into their propaganda by thinking that Parmak would be safe there? Maybe the same thing would await him there as at home. 

‘Elim?’ 

He shook off the thoughts. 

‘Are you listening to me?’ Tain asked. 

‘Yes. Of course,’ Garak said. He took a big gulp of _kanar_ to steady himself. ‘I read once that in the past humans would pitch birds against each other and bet money on the outcome.’ 

‘Oh?’ Tain said, looking intrigued. ‘Different sized birds, or the same species? Wild or domesticated?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Garak admitted. 

‘I could see the appeal of any of those,’ Tain said. ‘Wild animals do have a better killer instinct. But seeing a tamed hound turn into what it once was - there is beauty in that.’ 

There was something wicked in his grin. Garak refilled his glass and took another gulp. 

‘You know, it’s a good thing you’re here,’ Tain said, gesturing with his fork. ‘The garden is looking atrocious.’ 

‘I won’t be able to do any work tonight,’ Garak said. ‘It’s too dark.’ 

Tain grinned. 

‘Then come back tomorrow! I’ll have Mila make sure there is _gelat_ and _berkat_ pastries.’ 

Garak murmured something unclear and picked up his spoon. Tain’s words about domesticated animals were at the forefront of his mind. When he had talked about the tamed hound becoming a beast, had he also been talking about Garak? That was what Tain had done to him, done _for_ him. It had never bothered him before. It had been an honour to serve Cardassia. He might not take any pleasure in the means, but he cherished the end. Now, when he thought of it, he could not see the end anymore. What had he been trained for? To prevent people improving the lives of others? To prop up the rule of people like Legate Prelak and Enabran Tain? To let people die because they are poor? 

‘Elim?’ 

Garak looked up and found himself under Tain’s gaze. Now, it was more searching than before. 

‘Is the food not to your liking?’ 

‘No, it is. It’s good.’ 

Tain snorted. 

‘Mila isn’t much of a cook, is she? She has never been able to understand spices quite like you.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you remember that dinner for Legate Degar? You weren’t even supposed to be home that night, but you dropped by for some reason. Anyway, you tasted the soup. Mila told me that you said it tasted like water someone had left some onion-skins in. But you salvaged it. It turned out to be a delightful dinner.’ 

Garak stared into his soup. He remembered it very well.

‘It was not long before Legate Degar died, as I recall,’ he said. 

‘Yes,’ Tain said lightly. ‘Terrible business.’ 

‘It’s just the two of us here,’ Garak said. ‘You don’t have to fake regret.’ 

‘It helps to be consistent,’ Tain said. He shrugged. ‘I regret that his wife was in the skimmer. That was not planned. But as you know full well, Elim, one should never let sentiment get in the way of one’s job.’ 

Garak dipped his spoon in the soup and sipped it, but could barely make himself swallow. He put down the cutlery slowly and dabbed his mouth on his napkin. 

‘Are you quite well, Elim?’ Tain asked. Garak got to his feet. 

‘Excuse me, Enabran. I…’ He fumbled for the right words. ‘Excuse me,’ he said again and gave a small bow. He kept his head down as he left the room. The house itself seemed to be shrinking around him. From the walls, the portraits of his ancestors leaned in and stared into his soul. He had become the thing he had worked against. Was that why Tain had tried to mould him into this shape? Had he seen the seed of perfidy in him and tried to prevent it, or use it to his advantage? 

He stumbled. The wall collided with him. It had been an arm’s length away a moment ago - had it moved? Had he not walked in a straight line? His head was spinning now. When he tried to walk in the middle of the corridor, he instead stumbled against the other wall. The stairs were only a few steps ahead of him. With immense effort, he made it there and grabbed the bannister. His knuckles went white. His head was pounding. Perhaps there had been something in the food. Had someone tried to poison Tain? No, he’d seen them test the food. There was no way it had been contaminated before getting to the table. Had Enabran tried to poison _him_? But if he wanted him dead, surely he would not be stupid enough to kill him in his own house? Whatever this was, he needed to get away.

When he tried descending the stairs, it became more of a run, always threatening to turn into a fall. At the end of the stairs, he only stopped himself from tripping by putting his hand out against the wall. For a moment, he leaned against it. Then the need to keep moving took over. Garak stumbled through the broad corridor, into the sitting-room, over to the glass-doors leading into the garden. He shook the handle, but it only made the glass rattle. His fingers felt too clumsy to find the latch as he tried to unlock it, but after several tries, it gave way. The door opened.

He emerged into the garden like a caged thing from captivity. He did not know where he was going, other than forward, away from the house. Though he moved fast, it was with a stagger. He collided with a raised flowerbed, a bench, the base of a statue, but he kept going. There was a voice coming from behind him. Someone shouting his name, his first name. His legs gave way under him. He tried to push himself up, but he could not even get to his knees. He collapsed back. Nausea was washing over him now. 

‘Elim!’ he heard someone shout, closer now. 

He tried to get up again. Instead, he vomited. It would not stop pulling at him, forcing the contents of his stomach out. The sting of gastric acid ran from his throat into his nose.

‘Elim!’ It was Mila, who threw herself down beside him onto her knees. The gravel flew as her skirts dragged over it. ‘Elim, what’s wrong with you?’ She took his shoulders and shook him. It was the tone she used to speak in when she was angry at him, but when he managed to look at her, he saw fear in her eyes. ‘Elim, say something!’ 

He tried, but the words would not come. She put her hand against his face. He grabbed at her, trying to take her hand, but failed. 

‘Don’t you move,’ she said. Before he could react, she was running down the garden path, towards the house. He wanted to call after her, but instead of shouting her name, he only managed a croak:

‘Mother…’ 

She disappeared from his field of vision, then reappeared closer to the house. The kitchen door was a small, bright rectangle in the night. She went from a shadow to a silhouette against it. For a moment, she was alone, moving into the house. Then a portly figure stepped into view. Garak could not hear their voices, but by the way Tain lowered his head, he knew he was speaking. Mila looked up at him. Perhaps she spoke. She gestured, emphasising her point with a shaking finger. Tain’s hand closed around her wrist. Garak was certain he would strike her, but instead, her arm relaxed and he let go of her. She disappeared into the kitchen. The remaining figure turned. Even if his face was in shadow, Garak knew he was looking at him. He looked back. It was all he had. In the kitchen door, Tain turned and left. 

Garak turned away from the house. His breath was coming too fast. The dust-particles were coating his teeth and the smell of the vomit made him feel sick again. He spat and tried to drag himself away from it as best he could. There was a low wall just behind him. He managed to roll from his aching hip and settled with his back against the wall. To his relief, he realised he could move his legs. They still did not feel strong enough to support him, but at least he could feel them. He tried to take a deep breath, but the dust made him cough. When the fit passed, his breaths felt even shallower, like the dust had clogged up most of his lungs. How long had he been here? Garak looked towards the house. On the upper floor, only one window emitted light. It was disrupted by a figure, standing just by the glass. Garak tried to breathe again but only coughed. He felt small under his gaze, like he had when Tain had watched him where he sat in the closet. That lit window was the crack of light that the door let in. 

Garak heard the gravel crunch under running feet. Mila had not even taken the time to find a respirator, only wrapped a shawl around her head to cover her mouth and nose. 

‘Elim,’ she said, kneeling beside him and grabbing his arm hard. ‘Here. Drink. Spit.’ 

She put a water-skin to his lips and tipped it back, then forced him to lean forward to spit out the water. He coughed, but at least he could no longer feel dust under his tongue. 

‘Good.’ It was not Mila who had spoken. There was someone with her. A tall figure with his hood pulled up and his respirator securely strapped over his face knelt and put his case down. He turned his head and looked at Garak. Through the visor of the respirator, Garak met his amber eyes, framed with glasses.

‘No,’ he whispered. He tried to stand up, move away, push himself out of reach. Mila grabbed him by his shoulder. 

‘Elim, stop it, stay still! He’s a doctor, he’ll help!’ 

‘No,’ he gasped. A mouthful of dust made him cough again. He could not object when Mila pushed him back against the wall. Something was placed over his face.

‘Just try to take deep breaths.’

Garak forced himself to breath in the gas and looked over at the man holding the face-mask. It really was him. He mouthed his name and saw Parmak’s eyes crinkle with a smile. Garak stopped fighting. There was no strength left in him. He listened how, distantly, Parmak instructed Mila to fasten the mask over his face. She obeyed, then leaned closer to the doctor. 

‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asked urgently. ‘Is he dying?’ 

Parmak had not even turned on his medical scanner. 

‘Try to keep calm, madam. You said this gentleman was a guest?’ 

She nodded. 

‘Did he have a respirator with him?’

‘Yes.’ 

‘Would you fetch it, please?’ 

She nodded and got up. Once she was out of earshot, Parmak reached up and pulled down his respirator. He was smiling, but the worry bled through.

‘I thought we said we wouldn’t see each other tonight,’ he said. Garak grabbed the mask and pulled it off his face. 

‘What are you doing here?’ he rasped. Parmak frowned. 

‘I was called.’ 

‘No, that makes no sense…’ 

‘What doesn’t make sense? That lady called for medical assistance.’ 

‘She wouldn’t do that.’ If Mila called a doctor, it would be someone from the Order. Tain would insist on it. Garak shook his head, trying to get the fog out of his brain. Even if she had not contacted the Obsidian Order, it made no sense that Parmak would respond to the call.

‘We’re outside the catchment area of Akleen Hospital,’ he gasped.

Parmak looked confused. 

‘What are you talking about? What does that have to do with anything?’ 

‘What are you doing here? You can’t be here in response to a call.’ 

‘I came from Coranum General. I was filling in for a colleague – I told you.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Because she had to go out of town,’ Parmak said, bewildered. ‘Elim, this is not important.’ He pushed the face-mask back over his face. When Garak tried to grab his arm, he took hold of his hand. ‘Please, don’t fight me.’ 

Garak’s hand fell. Parmak replaced his respirator and picked up the medical scanner again.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. Garak just shook his head. He did not know how to answer. ‘I was told you fell. How did that happen?’ 

‘Couldn’t stand.’ 

‘You mean your legs just buckled?’ 

Garak nodded. 

‘You were sick after that?’ Another nod. ’How much have you had to drink?’ 

Garak tried to remember. It was all blurring together. 

‘Four glasses of _kanar_. I think.’ 

The wind picked up again. Instinctively, he closed his eyes. He could feel the dust grating behind his eyelids. Parmak moved, shielding him from the wind. 

‘Can you open your eyes?’ he asked. After a few tries, Garak managed to fight the impulse to blink. ‘Alright. Let’s have a look.’ Parmak got a penlight out and moved it across his face. Then, carefully, he pulled his eyelids away. It made the dust rub in a new way. ‘Hm.’ Parmak reached into the medkit. Garak tensed as he heard the clink of glass. 

‘No injections,’ he managed to say. 

Parmak held what he had retrieved – not an ampoule but a bottle. 

‘I’m just going to get the dust out your eyes. It’ll be quick. Just bear with me.’ He put his fingers on his eye-ridge, then moved them to hold his eye open so he could apply the drops. Garak blinked as they filled his eye. The unpleasant feeling passed, and the grating sensation of the dust was gone. Parmak repeated the procedure on his other eye. ‘There. Good.’ He picked up the scanner again and moved it over Garak’s head. ‘Are you still feeling dizzy?’ 

Garak nodded.

‘Are you in any pain?’ 

He was not sure. His whole body felt painful, but also very distant. 

‘Elim?’ Parmak leaned closer, trying to catch his eye. ‘I need to know if you’re in pain.’ 

Garak nodded. 

‘Where? Your chest? Head? Abdomen? Limbs?’ 

He tried to find an answer, but it was all too vague. He just shrugged. Parmak frowned and continued his scans. Finally, he put it aside and sat back on his heels. 

‘Right. We’re going to get you inside so I can take a closer look at you, and then I’m going to call for medical transport and get you to hospital.’ 

‘No,’ Garak said. The word only just penetrated the mask. 

‘This is not up for negotiation,’ Parmak said. Despite the oxygen, Garak felt his breaths growing shorter and faster. 

‘No. _Please_.’ 

Parmak looked crestfallen. 

‘You need proper medical care,’ he said. ‘You need to be somewhere with the right kind of facilities and diagnostic equipment, where there are specialists…’ 

‘ _No._ ’ With force he did not know he had, he pulled the mask off his face. When Parmak reached out to replace it, he grabbed his wrist. ‘Kelas, don’t make me go into that house. Don’t take me to hospital. I swear by the ancestors, I’ll not take another breath of that oxygen if you make me do that.’ 

Parmak looked outraged.

‘You think you can threaten me into not doing my job?’ 

Garak held his gaze. He saw his resistance falter. Parmak looked away. 

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’ 

Garak released his grip around his wrist and allowed him to replace the mask over his nose and mouth. He could make out the sound of footsteps. Mila approached, carrying Garak’s respirator and coat. Parmak spoke to her, but Garak did not really listen. The next thing he registered was Parmak removing the face-mask and Mila helping him into the respirator. Together, they helped him to his feet. His legs shock underneath him, but with support on both sides, he managed to walk. 

‘Is there a way onto the street that doesn’t run through the house?’ Parmak asked Mila. 

‘Yes, sir. There’s a side-gate.’ 

They steered Garak towards it. Occasionally, when he staggered, they stopped and let him get his bearings back. As they passed the house, Garak looked up. The light in the study window was still on, silhouetting Tain behind the glass. 

There was a skimmer parked in front of the house. Parmak put away his medical kit and the oxygen concentrator while Mila helped Garak into the passenger seat. She crouched down and spread his coat over his lap as if it were a blanket. He hoped she would say something, and she seemed about to, but in the end, she simply gave him a meaningful look and closed the skimmer door. Parmak took the driver’s seat and started the engine. The skimmer started moving. Garak turned his head and saw Mila at the side of the road, looking after them. Then the skimmer turned and she disappeared. Garak leaned back and closed his eyes. Breathing was still difficult. The smell of sick made him feel nauseous. 

‘Are you still with me?’ Parmak said. Garak opened his eyes. They were in Torr already. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Good. Almost there.’

Soon, they turned onto Imperial Street and parked just outside Garak’s building. Parmak steadied him on the short walk to the front door. When he started leading him towards the lift, Garak stopped, pulling backwards. Parmak resisted. 

‘I’m sorry, but there is no way you can climb the stairs,’ he said. ‘It’s just for a minute. Keep your eyes closed.’ Gently but decisively, he steered him towards the lift. Garak tried to follow his advice, but it made little difference. He could feel the walls and their distance from his body as if they were part of him. Once they reached his floor, he felt almost as weak as before Parmak had arrived. 

‘Just a little further,’ Parmak said as they stepped into the apartment. ‘Come on.’

Garak wished he had the strength to do things himself. Instead, it was Parmak who undressed him and washed his face and hands; Parmak, who helped him into a night-shirt and pulled back the bed-sheets; Parmak, who propped the pillows up and guided him back. Lying down was a relief, but his lover’s sharp gaze disconcerted him. There was not the tenderness he had expected.

‘Will you promise not to give me any more trouble?’ Parmak asked. There was no humour in his words. 

‘Why would I?’ Garak said, not quite recognising his own voice. It was slower and hoarser than usual. Parmak gave him a withering look, as if he did not have the patience to explain something he already knew. 

‘I need to examine you,’ he said as he moved a pile of books from the bedside table and placed his medical kit there. ‘You’ll let me do that?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

Parmak released a breath. 

‘Alright,’ he said and got a scanner out. As he moved it over his body, he asked: ‘What were you doing in Coranum?’ 

‘It was a dinner-party,’ Garak murmured.

‘How did you end up in the garden?’ 

‘I just had to get out.’ 

‘What was happening just before you felt that?’ 

‘We were talking.’ 

‘Do you remember what about?’ 

‘The hounds.’ 

‘Did anyone say or do anything that upset you?’ 

Garak just shook his head. Parmak put away the scanner. 

‘Has anything else happened?’ he asked. ‘Has anything been weighing on your mind recently?’ 

He thought of the encrypted file with a list of conferences locked away in his office. Then he shook his head. Parmak’s furrowed ridges did not relax. 

‘Elim, this is not the time for secrets. This is important.’ 

Anger flared up, forcing him to sit. 

‘Nothing, damn you!’ As soon as it had come, the energy disappeared. He sank down again. Parmak stared. 

‘That was uncalled for.’ 

‘You weren’t listening.’ 

‘I’m trying to help. If you’re not honest with me…’ 

‘I _am_ being honest. Now do whatever it is you need to do.’

Parmak exhaled slowly, composing himself. 

‘Right.’ He took hold of Garak’s hands, not clasping them but gripping them like objects to be studied. It was not until he saw his hands like this that Garak realised they were trembling. 

‘Have you ever had tremors in your hands before?’ 

‘Probably. Yes.’ His hands had shaken after Tzenketh, and since then, it happened sometimes in moments of high stress. Parmak released one of his hand and shifted the grip around his wrist. He felt his pulse for a long time, longer than Garak was used to. Eventually, Parmak laid down his hand with a professional kind of gentleness that felt impersonal. 

‘I’d like to rule a few things out,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to unbutton your shirt. Would you mind?’

Garak shook his head. He felt too weak to do it on his own, so he allowed Parmak to undo the buttons of the night-shirt. As he got another scanner out, Parmak explained: 

‘I’m going to take a look at your heart.’ 

Something about his tone infuriated him. 

‘By the ancestors’ bones, I promised I wouldn’t be difficult!’ Garak shouted. ‘Just get on with it. I’m not some nervous girl who needs a running bloody commentary on what you’re doing!’ 

Parmak froze, torn between surprise and anger. For a moment, he looked like he was about to lose his temper. Then he grounded himself. 

‘Fine.’ He continued the examination in silence. Garak let his head fall back against the pillows. He watched through half-open eyes as Parmak worked. His surroundings did not feel like it was quite real. The cold surface of the scanner might as well have been the chilly paws of some unworldly creature. The sound of the instrument’s read-out might be the animal’s chirps. The fingers that moved over his chest, pressing and tapping, might in turn be something mechanical and soulless. Then his eyes opened a little further, and he caught sight of Parmak’s face. The look of concern threw Garak back into the world. A new, stronger tremor went through his body. Parmak stopped what he was doing. He watched him, waiting for another tremor. When it did not come, he pulled Garak’s shirt closed, did up the buttons and pulled the covers over him again. 

‘I think that’ll do.’ 

As Parmak put away his instruments, Garak shifted, pulling himself up a little. He had wanted to sit up on his own, but he did not have the strength. He leaned back against the pillows. Parmak moved the chair that stood against the wall over to the bed. When he sat down, it felt like there was an emptiness on the edge of the bed, where Garak had hoped he would sit. Parmak’s eyes were fixed on him. There was something too professional about his steady gaze. 

‘Well?’ Garak said. 

Parmak entwined his fingers. 

‘You’ve suffered what is called emotional collapse.’ His voice was calm and gentle, almost like it had been in the recording Senta had brought back to the Order. ‘Some doctors call it nervous exhaustion, but that’s a misleading term. This is not strictly a neurological condition, but a mental one.’ 

‘What does that mean?’ Garak asked. 

‘It means that you have been under emotional strain for a long time, and you have reached a point where you can’t put up with it any longer. The cataleptic episodes you have been having were warning signs. You’ll probably continue having them, likely more frequently and more intensely.’ 

Garak sighed. 

‘You’re saying I’m mad.’ 

‘No,’ Parmak said. ‘You’re ill.’ 

‘That’s just dressing it up in nicer words.’ 

Parmak swallowed. 

‘I need to ask you this. Please, be honest.’ He leaned closer. ‘Have you thought about hurting yourself?’ 

Garak considered what to say. 

‘I decided against suicide.’ 

The doctorly persona slipped. When he spoke, there was a small tremble in his voice. 

‘Elim, you should be in hospital.’ 

He shook his head. 

‘No. That’s impossible.’ 

‘How can such a thing be impossible!?’

‘I can’t explain.’ 

Parmak made a disbelieving sound. 

‘Well you need to be somewhere safe,’ he said. ‘You’ve mentioned that your parents live in the capital. Can you stay with them?’ 

Garak laughed. The fact that they had just come from there seemed very funny. Parmak only looked distressed. 

‘Do you have any other family?’ 

‘No one.’

Parmak sighed. 

‘In that case, a hospital or a treatment facility would be the best place for you right now.’ 

Garak shook his head. 

‘This is serious, Elim. This is not the time to be stubborn. You need to be seen by a psychiatrist, and you need medication. And you should be examined by a neurologist too. I noticed…’ Parmak paused to collect himself. ‘You have a lot of scarring on your brain. It was probably caused by your accident.’ 

‘You said this wasn’t a neurological issue,’ Garak said. 

Parmak took a moment to answer. 

‘Not at its core,’ he said. ‘But if you have an underlying problem, for example caused by a head injury, that could make psychiatric symptoms worse.’ He paused again. ‘These past few weeks, you’ve seemed… paranoid. That and the tremors could be indications that there is something wrong with your brain. It could be psychogenic, but nevertheless, you should be properly evaluated.’ 

Garak looked at him again. 

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said. The colour drained from Parmak’s face. The professional façade was gone. 

‘How in the seven hells can you say that? I am trying to help you! I _have_ been trying to help you since…’ His voice faltered. Angrily, he blinked the tears out of his eyes. ‘If only you’d let me, this might not have happened…’ He bit his lip, hard. Garak was not sure if the anger was directed at him or Parmak himself. 

‘You might be right.’ Those words would usually have been difficult to say, but he was so exhausted there was no resistance. ‘But I won’t go to hospital.’ 

It was a painful sight to see Parmak fight with himself like this. In a way, Garak wanted to give in and tell him alright. Neither of them could be blamed for this – Garak was ill, and Parmak was just following protocol. It was Mila who had not contacted an Order doctor. He was back at the question of why again. He had never thought Mila would do such a thing. She had always followed Order procedures to the letter. Garak did not think a civilian doctor had ever been allowed into the house before. Even when he had been six years old and had broken his arm climbing the garden wall, the physician who had treated him had been in the employ of the Order, as he had realised when he had been in the process of becoming an operative and the same man had been the one to examine him. That meant there were two options – either Mila had had a major lapse in judgement, or Tain had told her to go against protocol. His breathing was becoming faster and shallower. The anger suddenly forgotten, Parmak took his hand. 

‘There, it’s alright,’ he said. ‘I won’t take you to hospital. There are things we can do here. We’ll arrange for you to stay at home. I’ll be here as much as I can. We can hire a nurse to take care of you when I need to work. I’ll write you a prescription for something that will help. I know a good psychiatrist, I’ll ask her to come see you. I should be able to borrow the equipment I need for a more comprehensive brain-scan…’ 

Garak shook his head. It was all impossible. He could not just stop turning up at work. Perhaps he could pull himself together enough to do his job, but he might have to be medicated for that, and the Order would learn about that sooner or later. If Parmak’s creative record-keeping slipped up even a little, the Order would know Garak had broken rules there to protect the organisation. Even if all that did not happen, if Parmak performed a detailed cerebral scan, he would find the implant. He might not understand what it was, but it would lead to questions Garak could not answer. The thought of that made the hyperventilating worse. Parmak kissed his hand. 

‘Elim, let me help.’ 

Garak held his breath for a moment and exhaled, forcing himself not to gasp for air at once afterwards.

‘You can’t,’ he whispered. 

Parmak put his hand over his mouth, stifling a sob. 

‘Elim, please…’

He was interrupted by a beep. He composed himself and stood up.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, digging into his pocket and taking out a communicator. He walked over to the window and answered the call. ‘Yes?’ He held the comm close to his ear, listening to the voice on the other end. ‘I’m sorry, you have to find someone else,’ he said. ‘I’m with a patient.’ A pause. ‘Yes.’ He bit his lip as he listened to the response. ‘That’s impossible. He can’t be left unattended.’ The person on the other end spoke. ‘No, listen, you don’t understand…’ Parmak pushed his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Alright. Fine.’ 

He put the comm back in his pocket and turned around. Garak pushed himself up a little. 

‘What was that?’ 

‘I have another patient,’ Parmak said. ‘An oviposition with complications. As far as the dispatchers are concerned, I’ve done what I can for you.’ 

‘You said I shouldn’t be on my own,’ Garak said. 

‘You shouldn’t.’ 

‘Then don’t go.’ 

Parmak sighed as he rounded the bed to where he had sat before.

‘These complications can become dangerous, even life-threatening. I can’t let that happen.’ 

‘Make them send someone else.’ 

‘Didn’t you hear me try?’ Parmak exclaimed. ‘There is no one else!’ He reigned himself in. ‘I have to go.’ 

‘You’re leaving?’ Garak asked. He realised now that he dreaded being alone. 

‘I don’t have a choice,’ Parmak said and picked something out of the medical kit. ‘I wish there was another way, but I really can’t think of one.’ Now Garak saw that he was holding a hypospray. ‘I’m going to give you something to make you sleep. It’s not ideal, but…’

He sat down on the side of the bed, hypospray in one hand and the phial in the other.

‘You need the rest,’ he said. ‘Of course it’d be better if you fell asleep naturally, but this will make it happen quicker, and it’ll make sure you stay asleep. Will you let me give you this?’ 

‘You really can’t stay?’ Garak asked. Parmak stroked his cheek. 

‘I’ll be here when you wake up,’ he said. ‘You won’t know I’m gone.’ 

Garak leaned into his hand. 

‘Alright.’ 

Parmak stood up. 

‘Let’s get you a little more comfortable.’ 

When he helped him to sit up with an arm around his shoulders, there was a new tenderness in his actions. Garak put his arms around himself, trying to stop himself trembling, as Parmak rearranged the pillows. When he guided him down again, Garak whispered: 

‘Forgive me.’ 

Parmak leaned down and kissed his forehead. 

‘I’ll see you in the morning, Elim.’ He mustered a smile. ‘You just concentrate on resting.’ 

He pushed the phial into the hypospray and set the dosage. 

‘This’ll sting for a moment.’ The hypospray hissed against his neck. ‘All done.’ 

Garak wanted to smile or reach out to touch him, but he was too weak. Weights were pressing on his eyelids. He could feel Parmak’s hand resting on his, as if keeping him in place. It was his last impression before slipping into unconsciousness.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: mental illness, injuries, torture.

When Garak woke, it was to a throbbing headache and an odd taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times. His back hurt – he must have not moved at all during the night. Letting his head fall to one side, he saw the bedside table. He recalled a medical kit lying there. The stack of books that Parmak had moved the night before had been carefully replaced.

‘Kelas?’ 

He sat up slowly, pausing several times to make sure he had the strength to continue. The chair Parmak had moved was still at the bedside, but it was empty. He had expected to see him dozing in it. He looked around the room for some sign of him. Turning his head made the headache worse. He screwed his eyes closed and waited for the spike of pain to pass. He cursed whatever had caused it – the sedative, the collapse or the _kanar_. 

It took a while before he dared to pull the covers off himself and move to sit on the edge of the bed. He had a bruise on his left shin. It must be from the stone bench he had collided with in Tain’s garden. Slowly, he shuffled forward until his feet met the floor. He was able to stand, but took hold of the back of the chair to steady himself. 

‘Kelas?’ he called, louder now. He paused to listen for him. The flat was silent.

Walking carefully and using the furniture for support, Garak picked his way through the rooms. Each was as empty as the last. He looked for some sign that Parmak was there, but there was none. He called out several times before realising it was fruitless. Instead, he started looking for a note. There was nothing to be found in the kitchen, the hallway or the bedroom.

Exhausted by the search, Garak sat down on the chair at the bedside. Perhaps he had metabolised the sedative faster than he had anticipated, or Parmak had been delayed. If that was the case, he might have sent him a message or tried to call. Garak could see his comm on the dressing-table on the other side of the room – Parmak must have placed it there after undressing him. For now, he did not think he was able to stand. 

Garak rubbed his eyes. He felt wrung out. Maybe he should just lie down again. He sensed that when Parmak returned, he would not be happy if he was out of bed, or awake at all. As he leaned back in the chair, he recalled last night. How rude he had been! He had asked for forgiveness – had Parmak answered? He was not sure. 

The doorbell rang. Garak’s heart jumped, then relief flooded over him. He got up and went to the door, as fast as he could. It took two tries before he managed to unlock the door. He opened it, about to say ‘Kelas, where have you been?’ 

The words died on his lips. Standing in the stairwell, stiff as a soldier, was Senta. She looked about to say something, then her eyes grew. Garak realised he was only in his night-shirt. 

They stood frozen for another moment. Then Garak turned and went back into the bedroom. 

‘Garak, sir,’ Senta said from the hallway. He pulled on his dressing-gown and found some slippers. When he returned, Senta had stepped in and closed the door behind her. Garak hesitated for a moment. There was no protocol for this. 

‘Come in.’ His legs were feeling unsteady under him, and while he did not want to invite Senta into his home, he wanted to collapse in front of her even less. He went to sit down on the couch. Senta remained standing. She looked to her right and left, taking in the room, then looked at Garak himself. 

‘Late night, sir?’ she asked, so impassively that Garak could not tell whether she was mocking him or not. He looked at the chronometre on the wall. It was almost noon. He blinked, willing that he had read it wrong. He had been asleep for fourteen hours. How long did they keep doctors on call? Not this long. Perhaps something had delayed him. Parmak was the kind of person who would stay hours after his shift ended if his help was needed. At the same time, he had been adamant about being with Garak. He had even tried to turn down a patient for it. Would he really let himself be kept behind in these circumstances? 

‘Are you quite alright, sir?’ 

Garak blinked. Senta was frowning now, looking at him searchingly. 

‘I…’ He did not know what to say. ‘I’m fine. I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me.’ 

‘Perhaps some strong tea would… clear your head.’ 

Garak glared, but maybe it was better to be thought of as a drunk than a lunatic. 

‘What are you doing here, Senta?’ he said bluntly. If she had come on her own initiative, she had overstepped her authority considerably. If someone else had sent her, his superiors thought very little of him. 

‘We’ve had a break in the North Torr investigation, sir. We’ve found Dokal and Maran.’

Garak pulled himself up a little straighter. 

‘Where?’ 

‘We arrested Dokal in Munda’ar. Maran, we found in the river.’ 

‘Suicide?’ 

‘We’re not sure, sir. It seems likely. On the other hand, Dokal may have decided he stood a better chance of escaping on his own.’ 

‘Hm.’ Garak leaned back. ‘What has Dokal said?’ 

‘We haven’t started the interrogation yet. Lok told us to wait for you.’ 

So Lok had sent her. That meant she was expected to report back.

Garak tried to decide what to do. Not turning up to work was a serious thing – people had been demoted for less – but he was in no fit state to lead an interrogation. He would do more harm than good, and that was assuming he could even make it to the compound. He could barely walk across the room. Besides, he did not want Parmak to turn up and find that he was gone. 

That led to a new thought. What if Parmak came home now, and saw Senta here? He would recognise her. She would recognise him. It would all be over. 

He forced himself to breathe. 

‘Lok can handle the interrogation,’ Garak said. ‘With Regnar’s help, if necessary.’ 

‘But sir…’ Senta objected. He cut her off. 

‘That’ll be all, Senta.’

She looked at him in disbelief. Then she nodded. 

‘Very well, sir.’ 

She let herself out. When the door closed behind her, Garak sank back. He fought to control his breathing. His heart was hammering against his ribs. The consequences of his actions wound out before him. At the very least, Senta had lost all respect for him. She would report back to Lok, who would report to Tain. If anyone else learned about it, there might be rumours. He’d be a laughing-stock. 

But Tain had seen him last night, being led away by a doctor. He must have realised that he was unwell, even if he did not know the details. Yet he had not made any excuses for him. Would he, if he knew he had not come to work? 

Garak rose. He kept a hand on the couch, then against the wall. In the bedroom, he fetched the comm and checked it. His heart sank. There were plenty of communiques from Order headquarters, including some from Lok, but not a single one from Parmak. It took him a few tries to type out a coherent message.

_– I’m awake. Where are you? I need you._

He sent it, not caring if it got caught in the monitoring net. When he looked up, he found his reflection looking back at him. He looked pitiful, hunched over like an old man. His hair was uncombed and tangled. It was his haggard face that startled him the most. No wonder Senta had thought he was hung-over. Garak drew his hands over his hair, trying to slick it back, but it would not lie flat. Not able to face the thought of showering and dressing, he lay back on the bed again. He kept the comm in his hand. 

He waited for half an hour. The comm remained quiet. Garak sent another message: 

_– You said you’d be here when I woke up._

Nothing. This time, he tried to call. No response. 

Frustrated, Garak threw the comm aside and got up. Parmak had talked about how he should not be left alone, and what did he go do? His annoyance spurred him to action. For once not caring what they were, he pulled on some clothes. He collected his credentials and his comm, then paused. What if Parmak had lost his comm, and that was why he did not answer? _But why is he not here like he said he would be?_ Still, he did not want Parmak to come back and find the place empty. That would make him beside himself with worry. Garak found some paper and wrote:

> _I’m off looking for you. If you see this, call me._

It sounded ludicrous, but it would have to do. He attached it to the hook where Parmak always put his coat, then left. Halfway down the stairs, Garak realised he had overestimated his strength. With no forewarning, his head started spinning and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. He stopped and waited for it to pass, then _willed_ it to pass. The stairwell seemed so narrow. It was too small to move through.

Somehow, he pushed ahead. With his eyes closed and both hands on the rail, he descended the stairs. The sound of the street outside told him that he was in the entrance hall. He hurried across it and pushed through the door. 

The world outside was loud. The noise threatened to overwhelm him. _Remember your training,_ he told himself. Finding his ground, he felt his surface going still. The inside was turmoil, but at least it was not visible. He kept his head down as he made his way towards the shuttle station and did not meet the eye of anyone when he got on the shuttle. As they travelled northwards, he kept his face turned towards the window. The government buildings of Tarlak approached, glinting and imposing, then passed, shrinking until they looked like some child’s discarded plaything. The leafy green of Paldar enveloped them. The shuttle stopped. Garak waited to leave until everyone else had gone. When he stepped off, the conductor was sweeping rubbish from under the seats. 

The tram to Legate Temar Street was emptier than the shuttle. Not being watched by so many people may have been what made his outward calm start cracking. Garak wished he had something to do with his hands to make him concentrate. He pulled at a loose thread in his coat-lining and took out his comm to turn it in his hands. Several times, he checked if he had been contacted. He had not. 

When he got off the tram, Garak realised he could not remember at which number Parmak’s practice was. He walked down the street, looking from left to right. He hoped he was right about the street, at least. 

He almost passed it without noticing. It was only his own reflection in the plaque that made him look up. It was an ordinary town house, by the looks of it built to be residential. The one thing that marked it out as something else was the polished metal sign. Under the triangular medical symbol was the text:

Dʀ. Kᴇʟᴀs Pᴀʀᴍᴀᴋ  
Gᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ Pʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴛɪᴏɴᴇʀ

Garak took a deep breath to ground himself and climbed the steps.

The waiting room was painted in an unattractive magnolia colour that Garak thought he had only ever seen in the context of hospitals and doctors’ offices. At least the chairs were nicely upholstered, although they did not look comfortable. Waiting patients sat as far apart as possible: a dour-looking old lady, a man who would sneeze every few seconds, a woman with two small children who would not sit still. When Garak entered, the receptionist looked up from her paperwork and smiled pleasantly. 

‘Can I take your name, sir?’ she said. He knew her voice – he had heard her ask Senta the same question. He was standing where the operative he had sent in to spy on his lover had stood. The receptionist sat with her stylus in her hand, looking up at him. ‘Can I take your name, sir?’ she said again. 

Garak drew a fast breath. 

‘I’m not – I don’t have an appointment.’ 

The receptionist put down the stylus. Her smile turned a little more strained. 

‘I’m afraid that without an appointment there’s not much I can do. I could see if we could book you in…’ 

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said quickly. ‘I just need to see Doctor Parmak.’ 

Her smile disappeared now. 

‘That’s quite impossible.’ 

‘You don’t understand,’ Garak said, putting his hands down on the desk and leaning closer. ‘I have to see him. I need to know where he is.’ 

‘Doctor Parmak isn’t here today, sir,’ the receptionist said. ‘He was called in for a hospital night shift, so he has the day off. If you’d like, I can see if Doctor Lehmat, who’s filling in for him, can see you, or we could arrange an appointment for a later date…’ 

Garak turned and left before she had finished the sentence. Back on the street, he looked around. Part of his brain was calculating the distance from here to Parmak’s house, and estimating how long it would take for him to walk it. The other part was reeling. It could not string thoughts together into anything coherent. He wondered if he was about to collapse again. 

It was the calculating part of his brain that made him put his hand out when a skimmer-for-hire passed. He climbed into the back and gave Parmak’s address. As they passed the terraced houses and the parks, Garak leaned back in his seat, trying to make his breathing come slower. There were people out walking – couples, families, nannies with perambulators. He watched them like he was peeping through a hole between realities and glancing into some other universe. Their lives were uncomplicated, not made up of secrets within secrets. They were happy. 

The skimmer slowed down. Garak paid the driver without giving much thought to it. He did not wait for him to drive away to hurry up the stairs to Parmak’s door and ring the bell. 

He heard the sound inside the house, moving down the hallway and disappearing into the rooms. Garak ran his fingers through his hair to try to make it more presentable. Clasping his hands behind his back, he waited. No answer came. Again he rang the doorbell, again he heard the chime from inside.

Stepping closer, he banged his fist against the door, then paused. Another hard knock. 

‘Kelas!’ he called. ‘It’s me!’ 

He waited, hand still raised. He thought he could hear someone moving upstairs. 

‘Kelas!’ He knocked again. The wood shook under his fist. ‘Please, Kelas, open the door!’ He could not hold back the emotion any longer. Tears were running down his face and when he called out again, his voice broke. ‘I’m sorry I said those things, Kelas! Please, just let me talk to you! _Kelas!_ ’ 

Garak let his fist fall against the door twice more, in frustration more than any hope of being heard. He rested his forehead against it and wept. Again, he heard something that sounded like footsteps. Then it was gone. He went down the steps, onto the pavement, and looked for movement in the upstairs window. He had imagined Parmak standing there, pulling the curtain back and looking down at him, his face set in a frown. Instead, the curtains hanged undisturbed and unmoving. 

‘Kelas!’ he shouted. Nothing changed. 

Garak turned from the door and took out his comm. There was still nothing from him. He tried to call again, but there was no response. Exhaustion was catching up on him. He sat down on the steps with the comm in his hand. If he waited, perhaps Parmak would grow tired of having him sit on his doorstep and tell him to leave. Even that would be a relief now. 

But perhaps he was not inside. He might just be hearing things. It was an old house. He had probably misinterpreted some crack or hum for footsteps through the door. What if Parmak had come back to Garak’s flat as he had said? If he did, would he not call? Even if he did not have his personal comm, there was the stationary unit. Then maybe he had been caught up at the hospital. Perhaps he had been in surgery and, once he came out, had fallen asleep? But even if he was exhausted, would he not have let him know somehow, perhaps even sent someone to be with him? 

Defeated, he pulled himself up by the railing and walked to the tram stop. Short of going to the hospital, showing his Obsidian Order credentials and making them show him the duty roster, he could think of nothing else to do. He was exhausted and in pain. Unless he wanted to collapse in the street, he had to get home. 

During the tram ride, the world around him felt even more distant than before. He saw people moving their lips and heard their words, but his brain did not absorb them or put them together. When the tram reached the end of the line, he disembarked the tram and boarded the shuttle only on muscle-memory. As he walked from the shuttle-stop in Torr to his street, he started feeling his body again. With every step, it felt like there was a chance that his leg would not support his weight, but then it would, and he would come a little closer to his door. When he reached it, he found that standing still was more difficult. As he put in the pass-code, he weighed from one leg to the other, willing himself not to overbalance. 

‘Garak.’ 

He spun around. The back door of the skimmer parked just at the door was open. Pythas Lok was sitting in the seat furthest away. Garak stared at him, trying to decide what to do. Lok was looking at him with somewhere between interest and amusement.

Protocol kicked in. Garak crossed the pavement quickly and got into the skimmer, closing the door behind him. 

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. 

‘I came to find you,’ Lok said easily. ‘You look terrible.’ 

‘I’m well aware of that,’ Garak said. ‘Now that you’ve established that, I’d like to go back to bed.’ He was about to turn and open the skimmer door, but Lok put a hand out. 

‘I’m here on Tain’s instructions,’ he said. Garak’s hand fell from the door handle. ‘He wants you at headquarters.’ 

Garak shifted. 

‘I’m not well,’ he said finally. ‘Tain knows that. I’m no good to him right now.’ 

Lok sighed, as if to say it was not his decision. 

‘He insisted. There were some raids early this morning, and he wants you to lead the interrogations.’ 

Garak looked at him more directly.

‘This is not North Torr?’ 

‘No. Bigger fish, apparently,’ Lok said. Garak shook his head. 

‘I’m hardly very convincing right now.’

‘As long as you don’t puke during questioning, you’ll do fine,’ Lok said. He tapped the wall that separated them from the driver. The skimmer started moving. Lok leaned back again and reached into his pocket. ‘This might help.’ 

He offered Garak a comb and gave him a meaningful look. They both knew that if Tain asked something of you, arguing back was not an option. Garak took the comb and started working on his hair. When the skimmer came to a halt inside the compound, he at least recognised his reflection in the window. 

‘Thank you,’ he said and handed back the comb. Lok smiled and put it into his pocket. As they climbed the stairs, he said: 

‘I put him in interrogation room three. I know you like that one.’ 

‘Good,’ Garak said. He was already grounding himself, trying to find something inside himself to allow him to seem calm in front of his prisoner. Somewhere, he found it. He felt it form a mask over his real face, hiding his thoughts and intentions. The storm stilled for the time being. 

‘Is there anything I need to know in advance?’ he asked. 

‘Not really,’ Lok said. ‘It’s straightforward sedition. You could do it in your sleep.’ 

‘Alright.’ He did not want to delay this by studying the files, now that he had put his mind to it. Going into an interrogation with no preparation was interesting, not unlike how he imagined gamblers must feel when they took a wild chance. 

They turned the corner. At the door of the interrogation room, Senta stood, holding a PADD. She gave a small bow when she saw them. Garak nodded back curtly. 

‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said and held his hand out. Senta gave him the PADD and turned to the door-panel that released the lock. The door stayed open only long enough for Garak to step in. 

The prisoner was slumped over, held upright only by the restraints around his chest and arms. With every ragged breath, the hair that fell over his face moved. The red of the blood made it look even whiter. Garak backed into the door. It remained closed behind him. 

On unsteady legs, he took a step closer. Among the pliers and scalpels and shockers on the metal table lay a pair of spectacles. There was a smear of blood on one of the lenses, but the frames were intact. Garak picked them up and took out his handkerchief. Carefully, he worked on the stain. The dried blood flaked off and fell to the floor. The prisoner’s hair still moved – pulled in when he inhaled, pushed away when he exhaled. Garak moved closer. There was something about the set of his shoulders that told him that he was awake. He must be in pain, sitting like that. His left hand gripped the armrest hard, but his right hung limply. The back of his hand was a vicious purple, and three of his fingers pointed the wrong way. _They broke his hand,_ he thought. _His beautiful hand._

Garak looked up to the wall at the concealed visual sensor sat. As if it was an eye, he held it with his gaze. He knew Tain would see. 

Parmak’s breathing changed. Sensing him standing near, he jerked backwards. When Garak put his hand on his shoulder, he tensed. He pushed him back, making him sit up. The hair fell from his face. 

His lip had split. Blood was encrusted under his broken nose. His left eye-ridge had turned an odd shade of blue, while his eye had swollen almost completely shut. From his scalp ran a thin rivulet of blood that pooled in his _chufa_. Every time he inhaled, his breath hitched. Whatever they had done to him had broken his ribs. The clothes were the same as when he had left Garak’s flat last night, although now they were torn and filthy. Perhaps that was when they had arrested him. 

Garak reached out and pressed the handkerchief against his _chufa_. The cloth darkened, soaking up the blood. Putting it aside, he opened the spectacles and hooked them behind his ears. Parmak fought against the pain for a moment as the glasses settled on his damaged face. Then he opened his eyes.

They looked at each other. Parmak’s lips moved: _Elim_. Only a small sigh escaped him. 

‘No,’ he whispered, but there was no disbelief in his voice. In that moment, Garak saw how he put it all together – his silences, his insincerity, his paranoia – and he knew. ‘Please,’ Parmak whispered. ‘Not you.’ 

Garak sat down facing him. 

‘Tell me about the Council for a Free and Democratic Cardassia, Doctor Parmak.’ 

Parmak let his head fall forward as he started crying. Last night, he had wept with worry for him. Now, it was because of the betrayal. 

What would happen if Garak undid the restraints, led him out and took him away? How long would they survive? Or if he just took his uninjured hand in his and promised him that he had never betrayed him, that he had been trying to protect him all this time and would never have reported him, what would Tain do to him? What would Parmak say? 

But none of that could happen. There was no way out of this situation. 

So he simply watched him. He wanted to remember every detail of his face. This was what he deserved: not to remember Parmak watching him with love, but looking away in horror. He tried to memorise the way his glasses framed his face, the amber of his iris, even the burst blood-vessels in the white of his eye. Sometimes, Parmak would raise his head and meet his gaze. Defiance, grief and regret bled into each other in his eyes, forming some new, unnamed emotion. Every time, it was he who broke eye-contact. 

Time passed. Although the seconds seemed to drag themselves by, Garak knew how long it was since he entered, as surely as if he had sat with a chronometre in his hand. 

An hour. Parmak tried to swallow and lick his parched lips, trying to ease the feeling of dehydration, but it did no good. Garak did not move. All he did was look. 

Two hours. Parmak twisted in the chair as a muscle-spasm surprised him. It made him scream, then bite down on his lip until it bled again. The blood dripped from his chin onto his knee, forming a round, dark spot on his trousers. 

Three hours. Parmak’s eyes grew unfocused. He was still awake, but he was slipping.

‘Confession is your best option, Doctor Parmak,’ Garak said. Parmak’s eyes focused again. He did not speak. Garak crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. 

Three and a half hours. Parmak’s body went rigid again, but this time he did not scream. His breath hissed through his teeth. Blinking a few times to clear his eyes, he looked at him. Garak looked back. 

Four hours. Parmak’s head fell forward. His shoulders trembled. 

‘I’ll confess,’ he said hoarsely. 

Garak took the PADD and set it to dictation. 

‘Go on,’ he said. 

Parmak swallowed. 

‘I’m a member of a political organisation called the Council for a Free and Democratic Cardassia. We meet every third octad. I participated in writing and disseminating texts that criticised Central Command, the Detapa Council, the Obsidian Order, and the occupation forces on Bajor. I have authored and handed out unsanctioned medical literature. I have forged draft exemptions. I have altered medical records. I have given medical aid to members of the Bajoran Resistance.’ 

A long silence followed. 

‘Is that all?’ 

He raised his head and looked at Garak. 

‘Yes,’ he said. 

Garak picked up the PADD and stepped closer. He held it up towards his right hand. It trembled as he extended it the few millimetres the restraint allowed him to move. His broken fingers did not move when he pressed his thumb against the PADD’s reader. The view-screen flashed and the confession was sealed. 

Parmak let his head fall. He was still conscious, but he did not move. Garak stood for a moment, clasping the PADD in his hand. Why did he linger? There was nothing more here for him. He turned and left the interrogation room. 

He passed through the compound with the PADD in his hand. _Is that all?_ he had asked, and Parmak had answered, _yes_. He had offered to fall with him, and instead Parmak had jumped alone. Where was the sense in that? The patriotism? 

He entered his office, still looking at the confession. With those few sentences, Garak’s world had been destroyed. 

The PADD slipped from his hand. The clatter it made barely registered. His head was spinning. His knees were close to buckling. He stumbled, putting out a hand to steady himself. It knocked a cache of reports off the desk, sending them flying across the floor. His hand slipped off the desk as his legs gave way. 

The fall seemed to go on for hours, like he had dissolved and was falling through the ground. The impact of the floor slammed against him. He could not breathe. He clawed at the desk, trying to find something to get hold of so he could get up. His fingers found no grip. Desperately, he tried to draw air into his lungs, but his body refused. He attempted to shout, but with no breath, there was no sound. He slammed his open hand against the desk. The light from the ceiling lamp blinded him. The silence buzzed in his ears. 

From somewhere in the distance, he heard his name.

‘Garak, sir?’

Then there was a gasp. 

‘Garak!’ The voice came closer. Its owner shook him by the shoulders. ‘Can you hear me?’ 

A shadow disrupted the light that absorbed his vision. Then Senta’s face emerged from it. 

‘Can you hear me?’ 

Another voice – Lok’s. 

‘What the hell is going on here? Garak! By the ancestors! Someone, get help! Get a medic now at once!’

Garak turned his head a little, and all he could see was the ceiling lamp. The shouting and bustling around him did not have anything to do with him. He did not listen to the voices trying to speak to him. Whenever he blinked, he saw Parmak’s eyes, defiantly staring back into his.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: mental illness, aftermath of large-scale disaster, reference to homophobia and injuries.

It was a beautiful view. The grass stretched from the house, all the way to the copse of trees at the boundary of the estate. In the morning, the sky was almost white. In the evening, two moons rose. 

That view was the first thing Garak became aware of when he came to. He had vague memories of the period before, but he could not even say how long it had been. Neither did he know how long he had been sitting at this window and looking out over the grounds. The days all looked the same. The view was the only thing that really made him feel anything. The rest was drained of colour. He recalled how, before (weeks ago? months?), it had felt like the emotions would break his body apart and escape through the wounds. The doctors saw his present state as a step in the right direction – not ideal, but better than the alternative. 

It would simply have to do. Garak sat watching how the sun climbed the sky, how the shadows lengthened over the grass and the twin moons rose. Then next morning, it would all start again. Sometimes, there would be figures out there: nurses in starched white caps and patients in the same grey clothes Garak wore. They would walk, sometimes all the way to the copse of trees, or sit and talk on the benches. Once he watched how some of the nurses made their wards play some Bajoran garden game. Like obedient children, they let themselves be coaxed into it. 

They had not offered Garak to go out into the garden. He did not mind. If he did, the view would change. It would become real, and all the imperfections that he could not see from here would be apparent. For now, he was content here. It was a chemical contentedness, but it was all he could hope for. 

No one ever knocked before entering. It was the sound of footsteps outside and the door unlocking that announced visitors. He had started being able to tell the nurses apart by the sound their shoes made, although he knew none of their names. The nurse who came over to his chair and leaned down to look him in the eye was young – too young, Garak thought, to do this job. There was something bright and naive about her that made him think that she should be caring for the destitute in some slum. For that he disliked her, or rather the associations those thoughts gave him. 

She smiled at him.

‘You’ve got a visitor.’ 

For a moment, Garak thought his mind had been playing tricks on him. Those horrible hours waiting for the confession had been a dream or a hallucination – Kelas was safe and unharmed – he was the one who had arranged for Garak to be taken to this place. 

The hope was short-lived. The nurse beckoned the guest closer.

‘Hello, Elim.’ 

Dismissing the nurse with a nod, Tain sat down. Garak turned his head in his direction, but could not make himself raise his gaze to look at his face. He turned back towards the window. 

‘How are you feeling?’ Tain asked. He waited for a moment, then said: ‘The doctors tell me you’re doing better.’ Again he paused to let him answer. He did not. ‘They did warn me you don’t talk much.’ 

Garak watched how a bird took off from the copse and flew away, out of sight. 

‘Where am I?’ he asked. 

‘This is Kora III.’ 

So this was the Crate. He had not expected it to be this beautiful. 

‘They expect you to recover, eventually,’ Tain said. His hand came into Garak’s field of vision as he waved towards the patients taking chaperoned walks around the grounds. ‘Unlike most of these people. What a pathetic life.’ 

Garak looked away from the window and down at his hands. Like everything, they did not feel quite real. The texture of the world felt wrong. His mind had gone foggy again. He had started wondering if this was down to the medications rather than his condition.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘I was hoping we would be able to have a proper conversation.’ He heard how Tain moved, making himself more comfortable. It took a moment for Garak to find the ability to speak again. 

‘I’m not sure that’s possible.’ 

‘Well, we can try,’ Tain said. ‘Do you remember what happened?’ 

‘When?’ 

‘At headquarters, in your office. You collapsed.’ 

He did remember. Suddenly, it was not hard to look Tain in the eye. 

‘What happened to him?’ 

The amiability was gone from Tain’s face. 

‘That,’ he said, ‘is none of your concern.’ 

‘Is he dead?’ 

Tain held his gaze.

Garak bowed his head. The pain cut through the fog, and his eyes overflowed with tears. He had known it, deep down, but he had hoped. He bit his tongue and closed his eyes. His hands were shaking again. 

Tain curled his lip in disgust.

‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘What did I always tell you about sentiment, Elim? You don’t let it interfere with the work.’ He snorted. ‘I should have had you hanged for this. Next time, I will.’ He stood. ‘Pull yourself together, and soon.’ 

Without another word, he left. The nurse who had shown him in entered the room again. She was not smiling now, but was all professional concern and cool efficiency. He surrendered to her, putting up no resistance as she pushed his head to one side and injected him with something. The fog around his mind started forming again. He let himself sink into it, where the knowledge that Parmak was dead could not touch him.

***

Garak had not believed that he would live to see the end of his exile. He had never considered the possibility that he would outlive the state he had served. Once, the Union Capital’s buildings and monuments had dwarfed the people who had lived in their shadow. Now, all that remained was twisted metal and crumbling stone.

When they had said goodbye, Bashir had clearly had the impression that Garak was going to become some kind of leader, rallying his compatriots and imbuing them with what he would no doubt have called a Blitz spirit. Garak was sure he had not imagined him dressed in rags, picking through the ruins for survivors. The situation now, months after the Fire, was worse than just after the bombardment. Structures that had stood through the attacks had collapsed. Water was scarce and often contaminated. People were still dying.

The only break from the search for survivors was taking casualties to the medical outposts. There had been talk of having a medic attached to each search-party, but it would require more organising. For now, the word ‘search-party’ was simply how groups of people who happened to search the right areas were labelled. The membership shifted and they seldom knew each other. Garak did not even know the name of the man whom he had helped clear a path through some rubble. They had been in the middle of their work when someone had come stumbling up and collapsed in front of them. It was obvious just by looking at him that he was very ill. It took Garak longer to realise that he was young, perhaps even young enough not to have been drafted. They had picked him up between them and hurried on their way. When they entered the medical outpost, the boy had started gasping and twitching. 

‘Medic!’ Garak’s companion called. ‘We need help!’ 

A woman with the medical symbol embroidered on her tunic ran towards them. They put the boy down and let her treat him. Garak could not watch. He knew death when he saw it. 

He stepped away and looked out over the encampment. The tents were too few to house all the patients. The ward had spilled out into the area of trodden-up field in front of them. Some patients were in beds, others were on mats or blankets on the ground. Triage too was done out in the open. Garak knew that if he tried, he would be able to count the people sitting or lying on the ground, waiting for help, but he could not say how many they were at a glance. The devastation of Cardassia was even clearer here than among the ruins. 

Garak watched as two volunteers hurried over from the tents with a stretcher. One of the doctors conducting triage got up and gestured to them. They lifted the patient onto the stretcher, leaving a pool of blood where she had lain. Her leg was mostly missing. The stretcher-bearers headed back towards the tents. Garak wondered if they were taking her to surgery or removing her so she would not die where others could see her. The doctor was already tending to another patient, a hatchling lying in the arms of an elderly woman. He moved slowly, like someone with bad joints might. When he leaned closer, the small child started crying, frightened by his pulled-up hood. The woman hushed and rocked her ward as the doctor pushed his hood back. In a world dominated by greys and reds, his white hair was as vivid as when Garak had first spotted it in that dim cellar bar, all those years ago. 

Ever since the Fire, Garak had forced himself not to think about it. He had spent so many years convinced that he had been executed, until that conversation onboard the Romulan flagship when Tain had let slip that he was alive. Certain he would not return to Cardassia, Garak had hidden the knowledge away, reminding himself of it only when his self-discipline lapsed. When he had returned after all, it was to a Cardassia in ruins. He did not dare to wonder what had happened to him. So many people had died, not least among those who had been part of the uprising against the Dominion. The chances that he had survived seemed so very small. And yet here he was. 

He had changed, of course. The sixteen years that had passed had not been kind to him. Few survived three years in the labour camps, and those who did came out of it scarred. Like so many Cardassians now, he was too thin and his clothes were threadbare. Nevertheless, he was immediately recognisable: by the sharp profile, the white hair held together in a braid, even the glasses, clumsily mended where they had broken over the nose. 

Sensing that he was being watched, he looked up. Garak was too far away to hear, but he could see his nostrils flare and his chest expand as he breathed in sharply. He turned his head away, then, almost immediately, looked back. Holding his head high, Kelas Parmak met his torturer’s eyes. Garak swallowed. If he had had any doubt, it was gone now. He could see recognition in his face. The gaze that stretched between them was so intense that Garak felt it should leave some mark in the air. 

Parmak looked away. Regaining his composure, he turned back to his small patient. Garak watched him longer. He could not leave yet. He lingered, watching him.

Cardassia was gone. The old regime, with its laws and its customs, was no different from the destroyed buildings around them, but as Garak watched Parmak caring for the child, he felt for the first time that maybe, something new might form among the ruins.


End file.
